The Murder of Mary Morstan
by LadyKailitha
Summary: After the events in season 3, Phryne finds herself in England with her friends, Mac, Hugh and Dot on their honeymoon, and Jack Robinson. While in London, she gets an invitation from the government official who saved her life, Mycroft Holmes and his wife, Anthea. Here the worlds of Miss Fisher and Sherlock collide. And where these two sleuths are, murder can't be far behind.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to my latest story. It's a crossover between my two favorite detective shows. Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries and BBC's Sherlock. A little bit of knowledge from each show wouldn't go amiss, but not necessary. And I'll try to keep the spoilers for Miss Fisher to an absolute minimum, but as this starts in the last episode of season 3 there will be some.**

 **I have been low-key writing this story for months and in my mind it is finally read to show itself to the light of day. It is a work in progress, so don't expect regular updates like with my last two stories, but I do have three chapters done, so hopefully it won't be too erratic. There is quite a bit more to go, including the scene that started me on actually writing the story. Of course the idea sprung from the thought while watching Miss Fisher, "What if the English government who saved Phryne's life in the war was Mycroft?" and it went from there.**

 **Expect the characters of Sherlock to be altered in some ways as they are put in a time that is not their own.**

 **Also this story is more about how the murder affects the live of those surrounding the death than any kind of mystery. And it is johnlock through and through.**

* * *

*Australia, just outside Melbourne circa 1929*

It had been a hard year for lady detective, Phryne Fisher. Moving from England to Australia, getting the man who murdered her sister, Janey, to confess to the crime, uncovering the biggest police corruption in Melbourne's history, and finding out that not everything was what it seemed with her family and their fortune, this knowledge having arrived in the form of her father visiting from England.

That last one was particularly taxing on her. But its consequences reached farther than Australia. Phryne's mother had written her father, the Baron of Rich, Henry Fisher, that if he wasn't on the last boat that season to England when it arrived at its destination, she was going to end their marriage. Which Phryne had whole-heartedly agreed with. Only her father had the bad luck to have been kidnapped and missed the boat, making it for the first time in his life to not be his fault.

And because her father happened to be liar, a cheat, _and_ a scoundrel, any telegrams from him would have only sounded like more lies and excuses. So Phryne did the only thing that she could think of, she offered to _fly_ him back to England. Thereby getting him to her mother before the boat arrived and avoid catastrophe.

* * *

The roar of the aeroplane had just started when a car pulled up on the little strip of road that Phryne Fisher was about to use as her runway. Phryne, a dark-haired woman, wore her hair in a neat bob, her soft complexion warmed by the bright yellow outfit she wore.

"Jack," she whispered. Phryne jumped out of the aircraft and started walking to the car, her father protesting the whole time. Just as she got a few feet from the aeroplane, a stern-faced man in a suit, trench coat, and fedora got out of the car. He was built on strong, sturdy lines, with just a hint of mischief in his blue eyes. She started running toward him and he began to run to her as well. They slowed to a stop in front of each other and just smiled for a moment.

"You're going to fly all the way to England in that?" Jack asked, nodding to where her father sat in the passenger seat of the aeroplane.

Phryne looked back, "It's the only way I can make sure he'll get there."

"For god's sake, what if this thing takes off?" her father yelled.

Phryne looked back at Jack and with a flirtatious tilt of her head, said, "Come after me, Jack."

He cocked his head to the side, "What did you say?"

"It was a romantic overture," Phryne explained.

He smiled, "Say it again."

"Come after me, Jack Robinson," she said, breathless.

He pulled her to him and kissed her.

They ignored her father's complaint, "When you two are quite finished..."

As soon as they pulled apart, Jack sighed, "I always feared another man would sweep you away from me," he smiled and winked. "I never thought it would be your father."

Phryne grinned at him, "There's a whole world out there, Jack. He's the least of your worries."

She broke away from him and ran back to her aeroplane. Jack gave a small shake of his head as he watched her fly off into the sky.

*Meanwhile in England*

Mycroft Holmes was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a pinched expression and thinning auburn hair. His blue eyes were piercing and far too knowing.

He had inherited the family estate, Undershaw, when his older brother, Sherrinford, had died in the Great War, as the papers had taken to calling it. It suited his purposes well enough.

Though he had shocked the locals when he had made his former secretary, Anthea Barclay, his bride. Of course she had been his secretary during the war in which they both worked for the Home Office and was probably even more blue-blooded than he was. But all they had heard was that she had been his secretary and that was the end of it. Anthea was a dark-haired woman with deep brown eyes and a curvy body. She was also the sharpest mind Mycroft had encountered outside of his family.

He was just grateful that the war had ended before Sherlock could enlist. There were some things that Mycroft would move heaven and hell to protect Sherlock from, and war was on the top of that list. Sherlock was now in his twenties, but still retained the gangly figure of his youth. His pale blue eyes and his curly mop of brown hair made for a striking contrast between the two brothers.

The war had thinned out a lot of the crowd but still there were plenty of useless people to hang around like beggars at the feast. People like Mary Morstan and her ilk. The Morstans were new money, her father having invested in the clothing company that would go on to make the uniforms for the soldiers. Mary had several swains, men who were out to refill their own family coffers when they hadn't fared as well as her family had. Mary Morstan was pretty young thing. Blonde. And in Mycroft's opinion, far too shrewd for her own good.

She seemed to have two favorite hangers-on, though. David Lancaster, the second son of landed gentry and Dr. John Watson. And despite their appearances being quite similar; short, blond, blue-eyed men. David was closer to her age, while John was older, almost twice her age, having been a doctor during the war.

Mary smirked. She was getting closer to her target and this silly game was going to get her one step closer. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy tennis. She did, but it would better if John was playing David instead of Sherlock, but with John's war injury he didn't have the mobility to play the game.

The fact that he was taking care of Sherlock's rackets and being a general ball boy, was galling.

"David!" Sherlock hissed, and Mary was forced to turn her attention back to the game.

David sneered. "Got to be a little faster, mate."

"That was very nearly my face," Sherlock snapped.

David just shrugged and picked up a spare ball. He winked up at Mary and she giggled into her lemonade.

David had gone for the face deliberately. That was the one thing they shared, their hatred of one Sherlock Holmes. But they were there on his sufferance. It was Sherlock who had wanted the tennis courts and because Mycroft would do anything for the twat, only the best would suffice.

She watched the game for a moment or two before there was a loud clatter and harsh curse, "Damn my leg!"

It was Sherlock's serve but instead of taking it, he stopped the game and went to help John. She sauntered over and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's okay, sweetie," she said, smiling gently. "I'll get this, you go play."

Sherlock stiffened at her touch, but did as he was told.

She crouched down and began helping John straighten up the rackets and put them back into the bag. "You don't have to do this, you know. You could just come watch the game with me."

John blushed furiously. "I like to be helpful."

She sent the bag down. "Come on, let's get you some lemonade at least."

John dutifully followed her with a sigh. He hated when his injury acted up, and being forced to sit on the sidelines was irritating when he had been a part of the rugby league before the war. He chafed against the implication that he wasn't good for anything but drinking lemonade.

John got his lemonade and turned to watch the match. It had gotten quite heated and David and Sherlock were fiercely sending volley after volley over the net. Finally Sherlock hit a drive so hard that it left a divot in the court, and David had to duck to avoid the ricochet.

"Hey, old boy!" David protested. "That was hardly sporting!"

"Coward," Sherlock snapped.

"Game. Set. Match," Mycroft said, from atop the high chair in the center of the sidelines.

He climbed down and went to refill his drink.

"Neither one of you were sporting," Mycroft scoffed. "If this had been a real match, both of you would have been thrown out."

"Mine was just a joke," David insisted. "Sherlock's could have done me serious harm."

"Yours would have, too," John growled. "You probably would have broken his nose at the least."

Mary swatted at John's arm. "Oh come now, John. We all know that Sherlock is too good of a player to let a shot like that hit him."

Sherlock had mixed feelings about that statement. On the one hand, she complimented his playing, but on the other she had taken David's side.

John laughed. "I suppose that's true."

Sherlock's insides turned cold as John smiled back at Mary. He watched as the two of them continued to speak. Mary flipping her hair and giggling, John leaning in and touching her arm as they spoke.

There was a sudden, deafening crunch. All talking stopped.

"Sherlock!" John called out.

Sherlock looked down. The racket that he had been holding after the match was broken in two, completely shattered. The splinters and strings had torn up his hands, staining them red.

He looked up at Mary and she felt a chill run down her spine. He cared nothing for the carnage that was his hands and racket, it was her that he was imagining broken and covered in blood.

And then it was gone. Mycroft and John coming between them, breaking eye contact.

John worked to bandage the wounds, and Mycroft tried to get Sherlock to say something. After John finally finished, Sherlock murmured that he was fine and strolled off. Leaving a very shocked group of people.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello, hello! And welcome to chapter two. You'll be delighted to know that this story is coming along splendidly and might actually keep to a writing schedule. However, I don't want to make promises I can't keep. I will let you know as much ahead time as I can if that changes, but again no promises.**

 **We continue in good old Christie fashion gathering the characters together before the murder takes place.**

 **Thanks as always to my fabulous beta Old Ping Hai and her continued interest in the hair-brained idea of mine.**

* * *

Jack had followed her, chasing her across Asia and Europe. He might have burned more than a few bridges in the Air Force, but that service wasn't the only one with access to an aircraft. A friend from his days in the Army had a dirigible. He hired that friend to take him to England, making stops along the way.

Sometimes he'd catch up with Phryne, hip deep in some murder or another, others he would arrive just in time to see her fly off.

By some miracle, he actually beat her to England. He was lounging in her mother's sitting room reading the paper, when she came in all breathless, calling out for her mother, her father close on her heels.

"Jack!" Phryne called out coming to a stop. "How on earth did you get here before we did?" she asked, putting one hand on her hip.

"To be honest, I'm not sure," he said with a smile. "But if it's any consolation, I've only been here a half hour. Perhaps my cab driver was simply faster than you."

Phryne rolled her eyes. "He forced me to take a cab," she said, jutting her thumb at her father.

"I wasn't going to let you drive me after seeing you fly!" the Baron protested.

"Never in my life have I wished more for the capable hands of Bert and Cec," Phryne complained as she flopped into a nearby chair.

"Yes, because having your two Redragger cabbies around would make everything better. For Christ's sake, Phryne, they wouldn't know London's streets any more than you would," Jack countered.

She ignored him and turned to watch as her parents made up. She smiled softly.

Just then the butler, Mr Hunter, came up carrying a small silver tray with a telegram on it. She tore it open and cooed in delight.

"Mac, Dot and Hugh are here! In England!" she cried. Jack was on his feet in a moment and standing behind her to read the message.

"Shall I go and rescue them from the docks, then?" he asked.

"Of course! They must stay here with us!" She turned to Mr Hunter, "Please prepare two more guest rooms."

"Of course, Miss," Mr Hunter said, with a nod.

* * *

Mycroft sat at the breakfast table reading his morning paper. Anthea was nearby making a fuss. She would groan dramatically from her chaise or sigh heavily.

"I can hear hear you over there, dear. I just don't know what you want me to do about it," Mycroft muttered without glancing up from his paper.

"I'm bored, Mycroft," Anthea huffed. "I'm in so much pain and it's only been four months."

Mycroft lowered the newspaper to look at her. "I know. Dr Watson is the best doctor in these parts and unless you decide to indulge me and let me send for the best all England has to offer, I don't know what else to do."

"I need decent company," Anthea replied.

"I noticed the caveat of _decent_ company," Mycroft said, putting his paper down. His wife was in a mood and heaven help him if he didn't give the matter the attention it deserved. "Growing tired of the aimless prattle of the _delightful_ Miss Morstan?"

Anthea snorted. "Delightful isn't the word for her. She goes on and on about herself and how clever she is and how much clever than I am she thinks she is." She raised up on the chaise a little, clutching her hands in a choking motion, "If I didn't think I'd hurt the baby, I would have strangled her with my bare hands weeks ago."

Mycroft chuckled and looked longingly over at the newspaper. He was about to turn his attention back to his actually in pain wife when something caught his eye.

"Well, I'll be," Mycroft breathed. "Some full idiot has flown from Australia to England in nothing but a two-seater."

Anthea groaned. "Please don't tell it's that idiot American again."

Mycroft picked up the paper and his eyebrows rose to such heights, they almost reached his hairline.

"No, my dear, I can honestly say it wasn't an American," Mycroft said, turning toward her.

Anthea struggled to get up on her elbow. "Well, then there is only one person in the whole world who would be that reckless."

"Indeed."

They shared a long look and suddenly Anthea burst out laughing. "She didn't!"

"'The Honorable Phryne Fisher arrived in London last Friday in typical Miss Fisher fashion. Flying in on a lovely two-seater, her father, stark white from the ordeal in the other seat'," Mycroft read to Anthea's delight.

"Now that would be proper company," Anthea lamented. "It's too bad we can't get her down here for a spell. She'd frighten off all the vultures."

"Your wish is my command," Mycroft said with a flourish. He rang for his valet.

The tall, older gentleman arrived quickly and quietly.

"Bishop, would you please bring me an up-to-date file on the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher?" Mycroft told him.

"Yes, sir," Bishop replied and slunk off.

"And you accuse me of being dramatic," Anthea said, as she gently lowered herself back onto the chaise.

"Nonsense," Mycroft replied, gathering up the paper once again. "I'm just trying to be thorough. After all, I have to entice the mischievous Miss Fisher to your side. No matter the cost."

Anthea giggled.

* * *

A few days later, Bishop had brought him the file and Mycroft sat in his study and perused it at both leisure and length.

It appeared that Phryne was a collector. But instead of collecting information like he did, or like the butcher's wife and her _ghastly_ dolls, it appeared Phryne collected people. She had in the course of a single day picked up a couple of Communist cabbies, a Catholic personal companion and two policemen; one a constable, the other a detective inspector. She then picked up a not-quite orphan named Jane. The girl had a mother, it seemed, but one who was unable to care for her.

Of course there was also the list of Phryne's conquests. A Chinese trader, an Aboriginal actor, a French dancer, and that was just the start of the list. It went on for several pages and almost every single one of them would have scandalized the folk around here. All but one, it seemed. One Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. Her most recent, and apparently most enduring conquest, and nothing at all like the exotics on the list.

Mycroft put the file down and interlaced his fingers, placing the forefingers against his lips. A slow, small smile began to appear as a plan blossomed in his mind.

He pulled out some paper and unscrewed his pen, then he began to write a letter. The letter that would bring Miss Fisher down to Undershaw.

* * *

The five of them were sitting in the solarium catching some sun, or as much sun that could be had in London. Hugh definitely needed it. The usually tan, handsome young constable was looking pale and a bit blue around the lips. His dowdy new bride, Dot, sat darning one of Phryne's gloves.

"Really, Dot," Phryne admonished, "You're on your honeymoon, you don't have to do that. My mother has a really good seamstress who can take care of it."

Dot just shrugged. "It keeps my hands busy, Miss."

"If you're sure," Phryne murmured.

Dot nodded and Hugh looked like he was going to say something about it, too, when he saw the withering glare from his new wife. His jaw snapped shut.

"Thank you for the trip, Dr McMillan, it was really lovely of you to pay for us," Dot said in the resulting silence.

"For heaven's sake, call me Mac, everyone else does," Mac said, chewing on her cigar. Everything about her from her hair and clothes to her manner was modeled after the latest men's fashion, but all very professional.

"I'm just grateful to be on land again," Hugh sighed.

"Got a little seasick, did we, eh Collins?" Jack teased.

"It was dreadful, sir!" Hugh agreed.

"It's a good thing I was with them," Mac said. "The onboard physician was a quack." Every line of her form reeked of disdain for her fellow doctor. "He made more noise than the seagulls."

Dot smiled into her stitching but looked up in time to see Phryne wink at her.

Just then the clouds opened up and rain hit ground with a clatter.

"Who would have thought that London would be so dreadfully dull," Phryne complained, waving at the rain, now coming down in sheets.

"I don't know, Miss," Dot said, as she inspected her work. "Hugh and I have found plenty to do since we got here, and Hugh hasn't been feeling well."

Phryne looked at Jack and then away.

Jack chuckled. "You could seek your own amusements or go out with Mac." He smiled into his drink.

"But there are places I want to show you," Phryne grumbled.

Jack's smile grew into a grin. He tried to straighten it when she pouted at him, but the smile refused to stay gone.

Dot and Hugh shared a glance. Before Phryne Fisher came into his life, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson never laughed and rarely smiled. The war had changed him beyond recognition. But now he laughed and always had a smile for her. Even Dot, who had only met Jack after having met Miss Fisher, could see the change that she had worked in him. But then she could see the changes he worked in her, too.

The butler came to up to Phryne with a small silver tray, a letter perfectly centered on its surface.

"Thank you, Mr Hunter," Phryne said, waving him off. "I do so miss Mr Butler." She sighed and turned to her letter.

"Miss!" Dot admonished, watching Mr Hunter for any sign that he had heard the remark, but the butler just left without a word.

"I'm sure he's an ideal butler for my parents, but he lacks Mr B's flare."

Mac snorted. "You mean his ability to take your outlandish behavior in stride."

Phryne cocked her head to the side and shrugged.

"Oh! It's from Mycroft!" she squealed in joy.

Jack sat up and leaned toward her. "Who?"

"I told you about him, Jack. He's the government agent who saved me in France. You remember, don't you?"

He did remember. The thought of him made Jack squirm. "Right," he replied, his tone flat.

Phryne ignored him, reading her letter. "His wife, Anthea, is pregnant and would love some company."

Mac winced in sympathy.

Jack relaxed at the mention of a wife and settled back in his chair, his fingers interlaced on his lap.

"Will you go, Miss?" Dot asked. Her real question was implied, 'Will you go and leave us behind?'

"He's invited you all," Phryne said with a wink.

"Did he say you could bring friends?" Hugh asked.

"As if Mycroft would do something so common," Phryne said with a smirk. "No, he's invited you all by name." She handed Hugh the letter.

He dutifully read it out loud. "...And you are more than welcome to bring those staying with you, the newly wedded Mr and Mrs Hugh Collins, the esteemed Dr Elizabeth McMillan, and of course, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson." He looked up at Phryne in shock.

"How did he know who we were and that we were staying with you?" Jack asked.

"You'd have to meet him to understand," Phryne explained. "So who's all with me?"

Once everyone had agreed, Phryne crowed in delight. "Sussex, here we come!"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yay! Chapter three. Here were merge the two groups together. Well...almost. But things are starting to get stirred up.**

 **I hope I'm not dragging this out too much and that you enjoy this chapter.**

 **Thanks to my beta, Old Ping Hai who is constantly driving me to make sure this story gets out to you.**

* * *

Mycroft held his wife, Anthea, as she sobbed, while they waited for Dr Watson to come for her appointment. The last week had been hard on them both.

In the hall there was a commotion.

"Sherlock!" John hissed. "Give it back!"

"It's not my fault you're so short," the young man teased.

There was the sound of a scuffle, then a sharp thud.

"Ow!" Sherlock protested.

There was a dark chuckle, "You should have given it back to me when I told you to."

John limped into the sitting room, a sullen Sherlock following behind.

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, "You shouldn't be keeping him from his appointments, brother dear."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped even further.

John looked between them and then said, "Oh no, it's fine. I could have got my stethoscope back at any time. Just a bit of fun."

Sherlock sniffed.

John turned to Anthea. "How are we feeling?"

"Emotionally or physically?" she asked, toneless.

"I think you just told me the former, so let's go for the latter," John said soothingly.

"Battered, bruised. Like hell," Anthea replied, snuggling into Mycroft's shoulder.

"All to be expected after a miscarriage, I'm afraid," John explained.

Her eyes found his and John squeezed her hand. "I can't even begin to fathom what you are going through, I won't try."

He did his examination and pronounced her healthy. "If you thought your inactivity while you were pregnant was bad, this will be worse."

Anthea nodded numbly.

"You won't be able to move without considerable help for at least a few weeks."

"We have Bishop and Hannah. They'll help us with her," Mycroft told the doctor.

John nodded. "Hannah and you will probably need to help her bathe."

They both nodded.

"It's hard to lose a baby," John said. "Especially since this is your second miscarriage. But the doctor who was here then isn't here now. I am, and I will see you through this, okay?"

Anthea nodded. "I had hoped..."

"That this one would be different?" John asked gently.

"Yes," she sobbed.

"This isn't the end, we'll get you back on your feet in no time."

He used his cane to push himself to his feet. Sherlock was at his side in a second, helping him to his feet.

"Thanks, Sherlock," John grunted. "Now come on, let's leave your brother and sister-in-law in peace, she needs her rest."

Sherlock looked dejected, like a child whose treat had been denied him.

"I have to see Mrs Hudson, who said she made some scones this morning when I rang her to confirm our appointment. And afterwards we can go see Gregson. Apparently he caught a fox in one his traps and you said you wanted to take a look."

Sherlock smiled, "Well why didn't you say so?"

John looked back at the distraught couple and Mycroft mouthed, "Thank you."

John shook his head, he was only doing his job as a doctor as far as Anthea was concerned. And with Sherlock, well. Spending time with the young man was always a pleasure.

* * *

Phryne looked up at Undershaw and sighed happily. This was more like home. She was furious that her father had sold Collings Manor for some _gambling_ debt. As lovely as the house in London was, it was no Collings Manor. But Undershaw was a proper English country home. She loved it on sight.

"Wow," Hugh muttered, looking up at the ancestral estate of the house of Holmes.

"If you think the house is impressive," Phryne cooed, "wait until you meet the owner."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Jack muttered to Mac, who hit him with her elbow.

"He must be very grand indeed," Dot said as the door opened.

Immediately Jack was struck by how little his host resembled anything that Jack had been expecting. He had been imagining someone more like the dancer, De Lisse, or that Chinese fellow. Instead Mycroft was almost a stereotypical English gentleman. And Jack breathed a sigh of relief. He had always thought that he had been an aberration when it came to Phryne, but meeting Mycroft now, Jack felt maybe he wasn't as outside her wheelhouse as he thought.

"Phryne!" Mycroft greeted warmly.

"Mycroft!" Phryne replied and kissed both his cheeks.

"I'm so glad you've come," Mycroft murmured. "Anthea lost the baby."

There was a collective gasp from Phryne and her friends.

"Has she seen a doctor?" Mac asked.

Mycroft clicked his heels and nodded her direction. "Yes, Dr Watson's seen her, but I'm sure he would welcome your superior opinion."

"Welcome or not, he's going to get it," Mac growled.

Mycroft smiled wanly. "Please do come in. I know that Anthea will be delighted to meet you all."

"Should she be out of bed?" Dot asked.

"Anthea has a will of iron, and against the express wishes of Dr Watson and myself has obstinately made her way to the sitting room, where she is lounging on the chaise."

He waved them in, "You could attend to her there, Dr McMillan."

Mac nodded curtly and followed Mycroft. The rest fell in line with stunned silence.

When Mycroft opened the door to the sitting room, Phryne pushed past him and ran to Anthea's side.

"Are you all right?" Phryne asked, after hugging her friend tight.

"I'm better now that you are here," Anthea admitted.

"My dear," Mycroft murmured. "Dr McMillan would like to look you over, if that would be all right?"

Anthea looked over at the men warily. Mac's nose twitched.

"I'm Dr Elizabeth McMillan," she said dryly.

Anthea's eyebrows went up. "Oh!" She blushed. "Of course, if you and Phryne would help me, we could take this somewhere more private."

Phryne and Mac helped her to her feet and supported her as they took her out of the room.

"My apologies," Mycroft said turning to the remaining guests. "It has been a hard week for us. We had hoped that the pregnancy would take this time. But alas."

"Oh!" Dot squeaked. "Has she had other miscarriages?"

"Only the one other, but it had taken her so long to get over the loss before we could try again," Mycroft explained. "I worry that we'll never be able to conceive."

"The poor thing," Dot said.

"Thank you." He waved for them to sit down. "Please do sit down. It must have been such a long trip, and you must be so tired."

"Yes, thank you," Jack said, sitting in the other arm chair while Hugh and Dot settled in the newly vacated chaise.

"I understand that both you gentlemen are police officers, is that correct?" Mycroft asked.

"Like you don't know," Phryne said from the door way.

"Now, Phryne," Mycroft said with a smirk, "Don't misrepresent me to your friends."

Phryne simpered and went to sprawl out on the sofa. "There's nothing to misrepresent, Mycroft, you showed your hand in that letter you sent me."

"I'm hardly omniscient, Phryne," Mycroft replied.

"It's a damn near thing, and you know it," Phryne countered.

"I just like to be well informed, and if I have access to more information than the average person, that says more about them than me, I think," Mycroft said with a smirk.

"You are saying that we are too lazy to dig deeper than the surface?" Jack asked, his displeasure clearly marked on his open face.

"Not lazy," Mycroft countered. "Frightened."

Dot turned her head to side and asked, "I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"No matter how good a person is, everyone carries something that is dark. It might not be something they did, but something they saw and were too powerless to stop. So they kept it hidden. Kept it secret. Our past darkens our sunny days. The darker the secret, the brighter the light that must be used to cast it out." Mycroft looked at each of them in turn.

"All of you have something that you would not want the others to know. But to find the one person who will see that shadow and love you in spite of that secret is what drives humanity. Yet we live in fear that the one we love won't love us anymore if we reveal to the other our own brand of wickedness."

"So you collect people's secrets," Dot said. "And what do you do with them?"

Mycroft smiled at her warmly. "And there it is."

"What?" Hugh asked, defensively.

"Fear," Mycroft said. "Not fear for herself, but of what harm I might do to others. I commend you for that, Mrs Collins."

"Thank you," Dot said succinctly. "But you didn't answer the question."

"I like her, Phryne," Mycroft said, avoiding the question yet again.

"Do ease her mind, Mycroft," Phryne admonished.

"That would depend entirely on what the secret is, whose secret it is, and why it's a secret, I'm afraid," Mycroft said, turning back to Dot.

Dot pursed her lips. "I see. If it was that they killed someone and were trying to get away with it and they weren't someone you loved, then you would tell the authorities?"

"Just so, but say it was that they loved someone of their sex, was someone I loved dearly, and its very nature would throw them in jail, I would hold it tightly with all my heart."

"Well," Mac said from the doorway, "looks like I missed out on all the fun."

Mycroft turned to her and smiled. "And how was your patient?"

Mac moved to sit next to Phryne on the sofa, using her gloves to swat her friend's feet so that she could sit down. Phryne pouted but made room for Dr McMillan next to her.

"Give my regards to your Dr Watson," Mac replied, crossing her legs. "He actually knows what he's doing. It's rare to see a male doctor who doesn't believe that grieving over an inconsolable loss is nothing more than mere hysterics."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to hear it," Mycroft smiled.

They lapsed into silence for a brief moment before there arose a commotion out in the hall. Mycroft was on his feet and out the door like a shot. Jack, Phryne, and Mac hot on his heels.

Hugh moved to follow, but Dot glared at him.

"You stay where you are, Hugh Collins, if you know what is good for you," Dot admonished. "It's none of your business."

"But Dotty–" Hugh protested.

"If they need your help, they'll ask for it," Dot insisted.

Hugh settled back into his seat, but tried to see around those clustered at the door.

"Hugh!"

He sighed and began to tap his fingers on his knee.

Out in the hall Phryne and her friends watched as a wizened man in sturdy, hardy clothing was dragging a posh young man by the ear.

A young man who was protesting his severe treatment at the top of his lungs.

"Mr Jeffcoat!" Mycroft called out, "What are you doing?"

"I caught this _freak_ playin' with dead squirrels in the orchard," Mr Jeffcoat growled and threw the young man out in front of the crowd.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft sighed.

"I wasn't playing, Mycroft," Sherlock defended, straightening himself out as he stood back up. "I was studying them. Someone is poisoning them, I just know it."

Mycroft stood to his full height, towering over his brother. "That is up to Mr Jeffcoat as gamekeeper to decide, not you."

"If we waited for him to figure it out, we would have put a man on the moon by then," Sherlock groused.

"What an incredible idea, a man on the moon," Phryne said, speaking up for the first time.

Sherlock blushed.

Mycroft sighed. "I'll take care of this, Mr Jeffcoat."

The gamekeeper snarled, "See that you do, it's not right playing with dead things. Not natural." The man stalked off in a huff and Mycroft quietly led the young man away to his study.

"I'd watch out for that one," Jack muttered, watching Sherlock go.

"Why, Jack! What on earth for?" Phryne asked surprised.

"No, Phryne," Mac said, shaking her head. "There is something not right about that boy."

Phryne cocked her head the side and pondered for a moment. "We'll see."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: It's Thursday yet again, and you know what that means, it's time for a new chapter! And still no murder. Hmm...don't worry, I'll get you there. ;)**

 **However and this is the sad part, this is the last of the completed chapters. Now, if I'm good and really buckle down on this chapter, it should be done by next Thursday. If not, this will the last of the regular updates.**

 **I've been having to work overtime at work and it put a real hole in my writing time. But it was work extra hours or have to really penny pinch next check. But for the rest of this week, I'll just be working my normal hours, so hopefully that means more writing time.**

* * *

At dinner only Phryne and Anthea were missing from the company. Phryne was keeping her friend occupied in her room, as they shared secrets and their meal.

As Phryne's friends went to sit at the table, Mycroft cleared his throat. "I figured that you would still be fatigued from your journey and would prefer if we kept the guests to yourself and our family."

"Yes, thank you," Jack agreed, putting his wrists on the table.

"I still don't understand why John couldn't come," Sherlock murmured, his head hanging low between his shoulders.

" _Dr Watson_ isn't family, Sherlock," Mycroft hissed.

"Maybe not to you," came the mumbled reply.

Dot fidgeted and then spoke up, "I'm sure Dr Watson wouldn't be a burden to the company, and Dr McMillan has expressed interest in speaking to him. So it would be beneficial if he came."

Mycroft sat back, stunned. Dot had shown some real backbone earlier in the sitting room, but this went beyond the pale. Sherlock looked hopeful.

"If it's at all possible," Mac said, "I would very much like to meet this Dr Watson."

"It's too late now, Mrs Turner won't have time to prepare another plate," Mycroft reasoned.

"Drinks, then," Dot countered. "We were going to have drinks in the sitting room after dinner anyway, so why not invite him to drinks and then there would be no troubling the cook."

Mycroft blinked. Mousy as though she seemed, she was quite the shrewd negotiator. "I'll have Bishop ring him up, then."

Sherlock jumped up and shouted, "Hooray!"

"Provided you actually eat your dinner!" Mycroft said sternly.

Sherlock smiled and began to tuck into the first dish in earnest, where before he had merely pushed around the food on his plate in a disinterested fashion.

"That settles it, then," Jack agreed. He turned to Sherlock and began to press the youth about his less gruesome experiments.

As dinner progressed even Hugh and Mac were in on the action, Dot acting as referee. And Mycroft enjoyed his meal for the first time in a long time. Perhaps, bringing Phryne and her friends was going to benefit more than just his wife. It might benefit his brother as well.

When the last of the dinner dishes were cleared away, they retired to the sitting room for drinks. John was waiting for them, one hand clutching his cane, the other a drink that Bishop had poured for him.

"What took you lot so long?" John playfully complained.

Mycroft smiled at the former army doctor. "We have a couple of science enthusiasts and they led Sherlock on a merry chase."

John looked over at the young man, with a raised eyebrow, "Must have been quite the chase if they can keep up with Sherlock."

"They weren't too bad," Sherlock admitted.

Both of John's eyebrows shot up. "That's high praise, indeed."

Mac laughed.

Introductions were made and John eyed Mac. "Sherlock was complaining–" the man in question glared, "saying," John corrected, "that another doctor has seen to Anthea, but he didn't mention that you were a woman."

"The surprise is infinitely more fun," Mac admitted.

John laughed. "I am sure it is."

And immediately, Mac secreted John off to see his patient, much to Sherlock's displeasure.

"Couldn't they have done that another time?" Sherlock groused.

"I am personally grateful Dr McMillan has taken interest in Anthea's case," Mycroft said with a relieved sigh.

"Besides," Jack said with a wink at Sherlock, "I don't think even the indomitable Dr Elizabeth could keep Dr Watson away for long."

Sherlock blushed. "It's not like that."

"Of course," the lawman instantly agreed, "but you are best friends, clearly. And best friends are rarely parted for long. Eh, Dot?"

"It was pure luck that we happened to arrive in London shortly after you did," Dot argued.

"Really, I thought the last boat to England had set sail the week before," Jack said with a smile.

Dot and Hugh shared a glance. "The Baron!" they said together.

"Precisely," Jack said. "He wanted Phryne to come home and see her mother. In addition to his considerable talents, I have no doubt that fudging documents is one of them."

"You don't mean–" Dot asked, dismayed.

"Oh no, I'm sure the letter was genuine; however, why not just send a telegram explaining that he had missed the boat due to being kidnapped? As we've seen, the Baroness is a clear, level-headed woman, surely she would understand."

"Oh."

"Besides, a week later would hardly be much of a hardship on either side," Jack reasoned.

"Does Miss Fisher know?" Hugh asked, looking a little dismayed at the Baron's antics.

"She probably does, but you know how it goes with family," Jack said pointedly.

All three of them had problems with their family; Dot's sister, Hugh's mother, and Jack's former in-laws. All disasters.

Everyone nodded, Sherlock and Mycroft included.

Sherlock went to go sulk in the corner until John came back down, but the others were free to talk.

* * *

The rap on the door caused Phryne to start, but she rushed to open it anyway. On the other side were Mac and John.

"Mac," Phryne greeted, stepping aside to let the doctors in. "And you must be Dr Watson."

"You must be Miss Fisher, Dr McMillan has been telling me all about you on our way up," John said, shaking Phryne's hand.

"Only good things, I hope," Phryne said.

Mac snorted.

"Right, what was I thinking?"

Phryne stepped back and let the doctors do their work, but after a couple of minutes she got bored.

"You know, Dr Watson," she began, "you are nothing like what I would have expected."

John chuckled. "That seems to be the general consensus, actually."

"I mean, to hear Sherlock talk, I was picturing someone ten feet tall, with the strength twenty men, and the perfect specimen of male attractiveness. Not that you're a slouch in that last department."

"Only twenty men? I thought it was at least fifty these days, I'll have to do more impressing, then," John replied with a wink. "And thank you. That's nice to hear once in a while outside one's girlfriend."

"Oh!" Phryne exclaimed.

John blushed.

"Wait one minute, Phryne," Mac interrupted. "Where on _earth_ would you have heard Sherlock talk about Dr Watson?"

John looked between the two women confused. "I don't understand."

"She's only seen Sherlock once all day, and that's when the groundskeeper hauled him in for cutting up dead squirrels," Mac explained.

John winced. "I've told him to do that out in the shed, Mr Jeffcoat won't bother him there, but he insists on doing it 'in the field'."

Phryne tossed her head to the side and looked skyward, "I may have heard Sherlock shouting when I was helping Anthea back to her room."

Anthea snorted from her bed.

"Translation, you were listening at keyholes again," Mac sniped.

"I can confirm that," Anthea said, rolling her eyes.

Phryne put her hands on her hips and pouted, "And how else am I supposed to learn what people are up to if I don't eavesdrop at keyholes?"

John burst out laughing. "You know, Sherlock says the same thing."

"I like him already," Phryne said with a smirk.

"You would, you heathen," Mac growled.

* * *

Dot was talking a stroll in the gardens by herself, needing some time alone. She passed a statue that would have made Father O'Leary blush and stumbled on John and Sherlock arguing. She stepped back to leave, but the anger in John's voice made her stop. She stayed where she was in case he did harm to Sherlock.

"Give it here, Sherlock," John growled.

"No, please, John," Sherlock begged. "I can't."

"Give it to me now," John's voice became dangerous and Dot stepped forward, but something in Sherlock's bearing made her pause. John hadn't struck out yet, and she couldn't just go barging in there unless actual harm came to the young Holmes boy.

"Please, John," Sherlock continued to plead. "Just don't marry her."

 _Marry who?_ Dot thought.

"I don't have a choice, Sherlock," John ground out. "My wound is acting up more and more and soon I won't be able to do much. And if I can't walk to my patients, then my practice fails and I'm out on the street."

Sherlock got really close to John's face, leaning down to get as close as he could. "I'll lend you the money, you can live with me, anything!" he pleaded. "Just not this."

"I won't be your kept man!" John snarled.

"And how is marrying her any different?" Sherlock asked throwing his arms in the air.

"It just is," John retorted. "You don't get a say in what I do or don't do!"

"I thought–" Sherlock began and quickly John covered his mouth with his hand.

"What the hell are you thinking? With that flock of people your brother has about, what if one of them heard you?"

A tear streaked down Sherlock's cheek, pooling in the creases of John's hand. John removed his hand and wiped off the tear.

"You need to be more careful, Sherlock," John growled. "I wish there was another way, but you know there isn't."

"We could move to the city and be bachelors for the rest of our lives," Sherlock suggested.

"People will talk," John said.

Sherlock shook his clenched fingers violently, a snarl twisted his face, and Dot was beginning to wonder if John was the one who would need rescuing.

"Don't marry her, stay with me," Sherlock begged again.

John looked down at his feet, all anger gone. "I wish I could."

Sherlock sank to his knees and began to sob. John knelt in front of him and dug into Sherlock's trouser pocket. He looked at the black jewelry box and then threw his arms around Sherlock as the two them cried and cried.

Dot started when a bird suddenly took flight. They didn't need her. Not for anything. She had nothing that she could offer them that wouldn't be trite or patronizing. She smiled sadly and slipped away back to the main house.

As she walked back, she found that she was crying. She always thought that she had it rough because Hugh was a Protestant and she was Catholic, but at least Hugh could convert. There was nothing that either John or Sherlock could do that would give them a happy ending.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Life's a bitch sometimes. First, writer's block. Then, depression. Then, once I had the energy to function my brain decided "Hey let's use that energy for PANIC ATTACKS!" So, yeah. Sorry about the wait.**

 **But here's the next chapter all shiny and new. I hope it's worth the wait.**

 **And thanks ever to the wonderful, amazing Old Ping Hai, because she got me through the writer's block and because she's fantastic at what she does, translate my gibberish for the masses.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

The next morning David and Mary joined Phryne and Jack for tennis, with Sherlock playing ball boy and John as judge.

David and Mary teamed up against Jack and Phryne in mixed doubles. Phryne and Jack trounced the other pair.

"My heavens!" Mary exclaimed, extending her hand over the net to shake Phryne's hand. "I thought Sherlock was a whiz, but you are amazing. Is there anything else you can do?"

Phryne cocked her head to the side, "Well, let's see: I drive a car, I shoot, I fly an aeroplane, and I have my own detective agency in Melbourne."

Mary rocked her head back in shock, "All that?"

"Don't worry, I have no intention of making England my permanent home. Australia is and always will be where my heart lies."

"You can't imagine how good it is to hear you say that," Jack murmured.

"Getting sentimental on me, Jack?" Phryne teased.

"Aren't I always?"

"Besides, I have Mr Butler and Cec and Bert to think about," Phryne said with a little shrug of her shoulders.

"Who are Cec and Bert?" David asked, coming up to them.

Jack laughed. "Just a couple of Redragger cabbies she cons to do odd jobs for her."

"Redraggers!" Mary cried. "Aren't you afraid they'll murder you in your sleep?"

"Whatever for?" Phryne protested. "Communists are as varied as Capitalists. The first time met them was at the hospital Mac works at, they had brought in a fare that had had a botched abortion. Saved her life. Cec's Alice owes everything to those two."

"She started dating one of them, that's gratitude for you, I guess," Mary sneered.

Phryne turned away from Mary and called out to Sherlock, "I hear this is your court, and you're quite the ace. Care to take me on?"

"I was going to let you go home without being humiliated, but if you insist," Sherlock said, rising to his feet. Mary and David exchanged worried glances behind her back.

Mary slipped off during the ensuing match, David hot on her heels.

"Mary!" David hissed, grabbing her arm.

"Go away," she hissed back. "I've told you, I've moved on and so should you."

"Moved on?" David snarled. "I fucked you senseless yesterday, Mary!"

"And I told you then, that would be the last time. I'm done, I don't need you anymore," she said with a toss of her hair.

"You listen here, you slut. You are mine, not some fucking cripple's."

"You're not man enough to take him on, David. John would kick your arse so far, you'd be swimming in the English Channel."

"It's not as though he's interested in what you've got," David said indicating to her tits.

"I beg to differ. And have," Mary leered.

"Yeah, right, he's got a raging hard-on for queer boy," David mocked.

"That's neither here nor there, that little virgin wouldn't know his way around his own cock, let alone anyone else's. Besides, I always get what I want. And it's not you," Mary said triumphantly.

David grabbed both her shoulders and shook her, "You will regret that, you mewling whore."

Mac stumbled on them and shouted, "Hey! What's going on here?"

David let Mary go. "None of your damn business."

"It is my business if you attack this woman," Mac said, inserting herself between them.

"Whatever," David said, storming off.

Mac convinced Mary to go to the house instead of back to the tennis court and vowed to tell Phryne what she had seen the next time they were alone. There was something going on around here that wasn't right.

* * *

Anthea wanted to scream. She had been planning this party for months and now she was forced to miss it because of a miscarriage. She was fine. She needed to be active to take her mind off of the tragedy. But no, everyone from doctors to her friends and even Mycroft thought that she should be resting.

So she pretended to be the invalid, hoping that if she appeared to be "resting" enough that they'd let her attend. Which had backfired in the worst way. Now they thought her too ill to move.

She had read somewhere that small towns held the most vile secrets and Undershaw and the surrounding village of Musgrove had to have the darkest secrets, no one was that nice. But Mary seemed to be at the center of it. A swirling web of deceit and lies with that chit at the center.

And though she couldn't prove it, she was sure that Mary was the cause behind the miscarriage. Someone had pushed her that day. And then there was also the way that she had chosen John over David. John was good-looking to be sure. Not as graceful and exotic as her husband and his brother, but he had a rugged charm. But David was more Mary's match in age, station, and temperament. It didn't make sense. So Anthea was on a mission to find out more about the enigmatic Miss Morstan.

Sherlock was one of the reasons that she pursued this still. After having turned up nothing for months, she should have given up. But the look on his face whenever she saw him watching Mary and John acting like a couple was more than enough to drive her ever onward.

And if the way that Sherlock was acting this week was any indication, John either had proposed or had at least bought the ring.

So it was time for Anthea to up her game, and this party was going to be the perfect cover. She smirked at the bed where her maid, Hannah, was unconscious. A little sleeping pill in the girl's tea, put her right out.

Anthea dressed Hannah in her night gown and changed into the girl's uniform. The hat would keep all but the most observant from noticing the difference. Which meant she had to avoid the Holmes boys and Phryne and she'd be fine. She tucked her hair under the cap and slipped out of her room.

The party was going full swing. Everyone who was anyone was there. Even if they weren't supposed to be. The booze was flowing and the laughter filled the dance hall.

Sherlock came up to Phryne, scowling.

"Whatever is the matter?" she asked.

"I can't find Mycroft," Sherlock explained, "and the staff is moving around so much that they have been elusive as well, but if I'm right, and I usually am, we are going to run out champagne in about ten minutes."

"Oh! And you don't have a key to the liquor cabinet?" Phryne asked.

"No, Mycroft doesn't trust me with it," Sherlock groused.

"You're a grown man for crying out loud," Phryne protested.

"Tell him that, he still thinks of me as a wide-eyed child," Sherlock said throwing his arms up in the air in frustration. "Ever since the war started, he's been so protective and he only got worse _after_ it ended."

"I'm sorry," Phryne said, "I'll see if I can run him down. See what you can do to distract the guests before they notice the drink isn't flowing like it should."

"And how the hell am I supposed to do that?" Sherlock roared.

"Can you juggle?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Sing?"

"I sound like a goose in its death throes," he admitted.

"Dance?"

"Not by myself," Sherlock scoffed.

"Is there anything _you_ can do?" Phryne asked, desperate.

"Actually, yes there is," Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up.

"Good, go to it!"

Sherlock went one way and she went the other.

* * *

Sherlock found a stable hand, but he didn't have access to the liquor any more than Sherlock did. But he could help Sherlock with his plan.

A couple months back when he was having a severe bout of sleeplessness, he had begged Mycroft to get him a spotlight so that he could practice his tennis at night. After the third night, Anthea had put a stop to his nightly playing as the sound of him hitting the ball kept _her_ awake.

He and the stable hand pushed the light into the Great Hall and turned it on. Sherlock stepped into the bright circle, violin tucked under his chin and bow poised over the strings. He drew the bow down and the violin sighed its first melody. It was beautiful and haunting and the crowd stood entranced.

Across the hall, John watched, fiddling with the poison vial in his suit jacket pocket. He looked down at his already tainted drink. Perhaps there was something worth fighting for. He set down his glass and slid out to the gardens to think. It was time to get what he wanted, he just had to figure out how to get it.

* * *

Phryne grabbed Mac to enlist her help in finding Mycroft and they were playing around when they burst through Mycroft's office door accidentally.

They were arguing whether or not they should knock when they had fallen against the door, causing it to fly open.

All laughter died on their lips when they saw Mary put something in her bra.

"You'll think about my offer, won't you, Myc?" Mary sneered at a clearly distraught Mycroft. "It'll be in everyone's best interest, don't you think?" Mary winked at him and then pushed past Mac and Phryne without so much as an 'excuse me'.

Phryne turned to Mycroft to protest, but he held up a hand to forestall her.

"There is nothing you can do and you won't say a word to _anyone_. Do I make myself clear?"

"Fine, but you better get out there, Sherlock says that the champagne is about to run dry and I'm not sure how long he can hold them off before your guests turn into a mob."

Mycroft nodded and led them to the liquor cabinet.

* * *

Mary watched John set down his drink and slip off into the garden.

"Just you wait, John Watson," she said to herself, "you'll be mine and Sherlock will be but a distant memory."

She gulped the drink that he had set down and went in search of another. She found a maid with a tray that had one drink left on it.

Mary smirked. "The outfit suits you, my dear," she whispered into the maid's ear. "I've got your man by the balls and soon this little getup will be the only thing you'll have left."

The younger woman skipped back, laughing as the maid tried to take a swipe at her with the now empty tray. She downed the drink, then threw the glass at the maid's feet. The glass shattered, causing the maid to jump back.

Mary used that to make her escape. This night was just getting better and better. She dashed upstairs. She only had five minutes before someone came looking for her.

She reached the top and a figure stepped out from behind a suit of armor.

"You!" she hissed.

"I figured you'd come up here eventually," the figure sneered.

"You really are pathetic, aren't you?" Mary jeered.

The figure snarled and pushed her hard. Mary reached out to try to find something, anything to grasp a hold of, but there was nothing. She tumbled down the oak steps to the cold marble floor. Blood flowed from her head, staining the floor red. Her eyes were now cold and lifeless as the figure watched on.

* * *

 **Dun, dun, dun... So many suspects, who could it be? Everyone has a motive, but who did the deed? Pfft. Like I'm going to leave you guys hanging for too long. Hopefully the answer won't take as long as the question did. LOL!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I'm not dead? *checks for pulse* Yep, not dead. So sorry about the two months of silence from me. First it was depression and the my computer crashed without saving the most recent bit I typed up. It was only three or four chapters, but it felt bigger than that. Then more depression and really busy May, and you have a recipe for not being able to write.**

 **It's not much of a chapter, but it does advance the plot a bit. A tiny bit, but it's there. But it also serves as refresher on what has been going on in the manor.**

 **Thanks as always to my beta, Old Ping Hai. She got me through the darkest parts of my time not writing and was really gracious about me not being able to write.**

 **Thanks to all of you that haven't given up on this story. I'd be lost without you, too.**

* * *

A piercing scream tore through the Great Hall.

Phryne ran toward the sound without hesitation.

"Phryne!" Jack protested before dashing after her, hot on her heels.

Dot hadn't heard the scream, but saw Phryne make a break for the side doors and took off as well. Hugh huffed a sigh, put down his drink and followed after his wife. He quickly outstripped her, Phryne, and Jack, and he reached the source of the scream before they did.

He grabbed Dot before she could see the gruesome sight, turning her into his chest. He shielded her from the scene before him and murmured, stroking her hair, "Don't look, Dotty, don't look."

Standing at the bottom of the stairs was a shell-shocked maid, screaming as she covered her face with her hands.

Phryne peered around the maid and gasped, "Mary!" She turned to the maid, "What happened?"

The maid just shook her head and sobbed.

"All right, everyone!" Jack called out to the gathering crowd, waving his badge. "Stand back!"

Hugh was torn between being a husband to Dotty and being a constable. He wanted to protect Dotty from the gruesome sight of Miss Morstan, but his cop instincts were clamoring to join Jack at the front of the crowd. He should be pushing back the crowd away from what his instincts clamored was murder. He supposed it could have been that she had merely fallen, but something in him knew that it hadn't been an accident. Dotty made a little sob and all Hugh's indecision about whether he was a husband or cop first went out the window. He was on his honeymoon, he wasn't an officer of the law here in England, but he was her husband, and by her side he'd stay.

Phryne looked up from the body and saw for the first time the maid's face. She raised an eyebrow and said dryly, "Well, that's interesting. You certainly have some explaining to do."

* * *

The police were called and Phryne, Jack, Hugh and Mycroft stood at the steps leading to the front door waiting for Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The small group watched as the forty-something Detective Inspector got out of his car. He was average height and build, but his dark brown eyes sparked with determination and drive. Here was a man who knew his business and did it well.

Greg squared his shoulders as he eyed each member of his welcoming party. The two were obviously cops, the others must be the master and mistress of the house. He walked up the stairs and stood in front of Mycroft.

"Mister Holmes, I presume," Greg said, extending his hand. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

"I am, yes," Mycroft replied, shaking Greg's hand. "You'll have to excuse my wife, she is unwell and is unable to greet you."

Phryne scoffed.

"Then who would you be?" Greg asked.

Phryne smirked and pulled a card out of her bra. "The Honorable Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective."

Greg took the card and read several times before sliding it into his coat pocket. "I don't have patience for pretty busybodies thinking themselves to be detectives, no matter how talented they consider themselves to be," Greg growled.

"You can either let me help you, or I can find my own way, and I assure you it will only make things more difficult for you," Phryne challenged.

Jack stepped between them, "Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of City South police station in Melbourne, Australia; might I make a suggestion?"

Greg raised an eyebrow, "You're a bit of a ways from home."

"A bit, I'm on holiday," Jack admitted. "Seeing the world, taking the long way around to England."

"We are visiting my friends Anthea and Mycroft Holmes," Phryne interrupted. "We are traveling with Hugh," she indicated to the remaining gentleman.

"Constable Hugh Collins," Hugh interrupted her interruption to shake hands with Greg. "Also of City South police station. I'm on my honeymoon." His face lit up.

Greg looked at Phryne, "My former lady's companion, Dorothy Collins nee Williams. Also with us is Dr. Elizabeth McMillan."

"And I take it both ladies are inside?" Greg was getting uncomfortable. He was being stymied and he wanted to know why.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "Dr Elizabeth McMillan and Dr John Watson have taken precautions to keep people from tampering with the body before you can see it."

"They know police procedure?" Greg's estimation of them was rising a little. A very little.

"Mac, Dr McMillan, does," Jack informed him, "Dr Watson is taking instruction from her. She is one our of medical examiners."

"Right..." Greg took deep breath. "What was your suggestion?" he asked Jack.

"Hmm?" Jack replied.

"About what to do with this one?" He thrust his chin at Phryne.

"Oh that," Jack smiled. "Let her into your investigation, you'll find it easier to keep an eye on her so she doesn't do something entirely too reckless."

"I am not reckless!" Phryne protested. "I merely take risks."

"The Communist bank robbery, the murderous painter, the circus, the town with the vineyard, the way you drive your car, I could go on, but there are some that would be even too low for me to mention," Jack shot back.

Phryne sniffed.

Greg's eyes were wide and his jaw was slack with shock. "Should she even be allowed to go anywhere near a crime scene?"

"Despite all the reckless behavior she is quite intuitive and very brilliant," Jack said, turning to Greg. He smiled and then turned back to Phryne, "Plus, she'll just do what she wants anyway."

"And you like it," Phryne countered, her breath hot on his cheek. He turned his head and they brushed noses.

Mycroft cleared his throat and they quickly stepped back.

"Let me take you to the body, Detective Inspector," he said, moving aside to let Greg through.

Greg nodded and then swirled to face Jack and Hugh, "I suppose you want in on this, too?"

Jack smiled, "I wasn't going to even ask."

Hugh raised his hand and practically shouted, "I was!"

Greg laughed. "Come on, you lot," he said, waving in front of him so that he could follow them in.

Mycroft, Jack, and Hugh turned and started walking into the house, leaving behind Greg and Phryne.

"I had a daughter who would have been your age had she lived," Greg began, "She was in the ambulance corps and the enemy shelled her ambulance believing it carried some high ranking official."

"I'm sorry for your loss. I too was in the ambulance corps; it isn't for the weak of heart, I'm sure she was very brave," Phryne murmured. "But I am not her."

"I know you're not, but I learned one thing very early on with her and that was to let her do what it was she set her heart on because it would be far worse if I didn't. So I'm letting you in, just don't make regret it."

"Deal," she replied, extending her hand.

He took it and shook, sealing their bargain.

* * *

Greg knelt by the body of Mary Morstan. "She was a pretty thing, wasn't she?"

All three men shrugged.

"I wouldn't know," Jack said with a smile, "I prefer brunettes." He winked at Phryne and she smirked in reply.

Greg looked up and shook his head. "Tell me about the deceased," he instructed.

Hugh stepped up, pulling out his trusty little black notebook and pen. "Twenty years old, the only child and heir to the Morstan textile empire. Her boyfriend, Dr John Watson, age thirty-two. He's the local doctor."

"Wait, isn't that the fellow that you said had looked over the body?" Greg interrupted.

"Dr McMillan is with him, besides he was the only other doctor in the house," Mycroft explained. "And with her being an outsider, my guests don't trust her."

"Better an outsider than her boyfriend, for Christ's sake!" Greg bellowed.

"I agree with you there," Mycroft said, smiling painfully.

"Continue, Constable Collins," Greg said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Mary, John and one David Lancaster, third son of the Baron of Brat, often come to the house to play tennis with Sherlock Holmes, the third son of the previous master of Undershaw, Siger Holmes."

"Third?" Greg asked.

"My brother, Sherrinford died in the early days of the Great War," Mycroft replied, leaning against the banister. "When my father died three years ago, the house came to me."

"And your mother?" Greg queried.

"Passed when Sherlock was only five," came the curt answer.

"Should I continue, sir?" Hugh asked, breaking the tense silence that followed.

"Of course, Collins," Greg said, eyes never looking away from Mycroft's.

"Dr Watson informed us that he had proposed to Miss Morstan and was planning to announce it this evening at the party. There were several unhappy persons at this pronouncement, Sherlock Holmes and David Lancaster being first among them."

"And the others?"

"Her father was said to be disappointed in her choice, and I overheard many people tonight talking about how improper it was for someone that young to be married to someone of Dr Watson's age," Hugh said.

"Anything else?"

"Not yet," Hugh admitted. "I don't have my Dotty's notes with me."

"Dotty?" Greg asked, confused and then his face cleared. "Oh! Your wife! Why would you need her notes?"

"As my lady's companion, she would take notes for me and is a very good detective in her own right. Right now she is keeping an eye on the guests to make sure no one tries to slip away."

Greg raised his eyebrows approvingly. "Must be a firecracker, your Dotty."

"Yes, sir!" Hugh agreed.

Greg rubbed his chin. "If you and your wife ever decide to settle in England, I'd be happy to have a constable like you, Collins."

Hugh blushed.

"You can't have him," Jack protested, wagging his finger at Greg.

Greg laughed.

"I'm quite happy in Melbourne, sir," Hugh replied. "It's home."

"Fair enough," Greg said with a smile.

"Before we speak to your household, staff, and guests, I'd let speak to you first," Greg asked Mycroft, "if I may?"

Mycroft straightened his spine and raised his chin, "Of course, everyone else is rounded up in Great Hall, you may use my study for interviews."

"That's very gracious of you, Mister Holmes," Greg said, indicating for Mycroft to lead the way.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Welp! That took longer than I thought it would. Life, depression, and work kept me from writing. But it's done and ready for your view pleasure.**

 **Thanks to you all for sticking with me through this and to my beta Old Ping Hai.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Phryne and company followed close on Greg's heels. Mycroft waved his hand for Greg to take his chair and sat in the seat across from him, clasping his hands together and resting his arms on his legs. Jack stood to the side with Hugh at the door, to prevent anyone coming or going without Detective Inspector Lestrade's express wishes. Phryne, of course, draped herself on the edge of the desk.

Greg pulled out his notebook and a pen, then tapped the page with the pen. "Right, tell me about the deceased."

Mycroft sighed and leaned back into the chair. "Mary Morstan was often a guest here at Undershaw."

"To see your wife, Anthea?" Greg asked.

Mycroft laughed mirthlessly. "God no, two brilliant, head-strong, clever women in the same room only generated sparks. They weren't friends. No, my wife and I tolerate Miss Morstan because she was one of the few who would come and play tennis with my brother Sherlock."

"Which Collins mentioned earlier," Greg said, nodding. "Was she currently staying at the estate?"

"No," Mycroft replied.

"No?" Greg asked with a frown. "Do you know what she was doing upstairs?"

Mycroft crossed his legs and leaned on one of the arms of the chair, "Being herself, I'd imagine."

"A snoop?" Greg supplied.

Mycroft smile wanly. "That's one way to put it."

"Wait!" Phryne gasped. "She was blackmailing you. That's what she was talking about when Mac and I stumbled on the both of you earlier."

Greg stood up quickly as Mycroft sat up and buried his head in his hands.

"Phryne!" Mycroft moaned.

"What?" Greg shouted at the same time.

All three police officers turned to Mycroft and narrowed their focus to him alone.

"Oh for God's sake!" Mycroft growled as he saw them looking at him. "I didn't kill her. I was with my butler, Bishop, and another maid, Edith, in the wine cellar getting more spirits for the party. Besides, this is only an inquiry. You have no evidence of murder yet, anyway."

Phryne scoffed, "If she fell of her own accord, I'd eat my best cap."

Mycroft managed to look both amused and horrified.

"We are getting off the point," Greg barked, drawing attention back to the matter at hand. "Was Miss Morstan blackmailing you or not?"

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, she was."

"What was she blackmailing you for?" Jack asked.

Mycroft wiped his hands nervously on his trousers and took a deep breath. "It'll most likely come out in an inquest anyway. But please, it can't leave this room. I'd be ruined."

They all nodded.

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Most people around here don't know because my family kept to ourselves, but I have said on multiple occasions to the town and to the Crown that Sherrinford and I are two years apart and that Sherlock and I are ten years apart."

"Okay," Greg said slowly, wanting Mycroft to get to the point.

"There are four years between Sherrinford and myself and seven between Sherlock and me."

"So you lied about your age," Jack said, "How is that blackmail-able?"

"I've told that lie for twelve years."

"Oh!" Phryne cried.

"What happened twelve years ago?" Hugh asked.

"The War," Jack said catching on.

"Oh God," Greg breathed and sat down hard.

"You lied so that you could go to war," Jack muttered. "A lot of boys did the same, that's not that unpardonable."

"It is when you tell the Crown that your eighteen-year-old brother is fifteen," Mycroft whispered. "It was nearing the end of the War and they were getting desperate for men. They were thinking of lowering the draft age to seventeen and I couldn't think of what would have happened if Sherlock had been drafted."

"Mycroft," Phryne murmured.

"I could be stripped of rank, pension revoked, and be made a social pariah," Mycroft said, lifting up his chin. "But I did what I had to. I couldn't lose both of my brothers. I wouldn't have been able to survive if that had happened."

"Is there anything you would like to add, Detective Inspector Robinson?" Greg asked.

"Not at this time," Jack said.

"Does Sherlock know?" Hugh asked.

"What?" Mycroft asked, turning to the constable.

"Does Sherlock know you lied for him?"

Mycroft blinked. "I honestly have no idea."

"Would Sherlock have killed Miss Morstan to protect you?" Hugh asked.

"Hugh!" Phryne protested.

"You leave him out of this!" Mycroft stood. "He had nothing to do with her death! Do you hear me!"

* * *

It took them some time to calm Mycroft after the outburst. But once they got him settled with a drink in his hand, Greg looked at the least of people he wanted to see.

"I'd like to speak to the maid who found the body," he said to the others.

Suddenly Mycroft tensed and looked up at Phryne in shock, "So soon? She's had a terrible fright."

Phryne hurried to reassure him, "It's all right, Mycroft. They just want to speak with her while what she's seen is still fresh in her mind. Besides, isn't it better that she get it over with fast instead of constantly making her dredge it up later?"

"You're right," Mycroft murmured, defeated. "This is just so vexing. A murder in my own house and my own friends and family are suspect."

"I promise to get down to the bottom of this, Mr Holmes," Greg said fervently.

"Thank you," Mycroft said softly. He moved to get up. "I should go get her then."

Phryne put her hand on her shoulder, "I'll do it, you have enough to worry about."

Mycroft patted her hand, "You are a dear."

Phryne smiled and then slipped out of the room.

* * *

Phryne entered the Grand Hall where Dot and Mac (who had finished her examination of the body) stood guard over the guests and staff.

"This is preposterous!" an older man yelled from the corner. "Being held in here like sheep!"

Phryne turned to him. "You could leave if you like," she said sweetly. "But then the police would have to hunt you down, and you would become their number one suspect."

The man quieted down. Muttering rippled through the crowd as Phryne confirmed that Mary's death was not an accident.

"Where's our fox?" Phryne asked Dot.

"In the corner, hiding from everyone," Dot replied.

Phryne walked up and hissed the maid's ear when the girl protested. She stood up and followed Phryne out the door, to the study.

Mycroft stood up as they entered.

"Phryne, what is the meaning of this?" His voice shook. "That is not Hannah!"

Greg turned to Mycroft. "So who is it?"

Phryne ripped off the maid's hat and wig, revealing Anthea.

"My wife!" Mycroft hissed.

"Your wife is the maid?" Greg asked.

"No," Jack said, stepping in. "His wife disguised herself as the maid, and who knows where Hannah is."

"Probably in Anthea's room either knocked out or pretending to be Anthea," Phryne suggested.

"Oh dear God!" Mycroft huffed and ran out the door.

"Where is he going?" Greg asked, exasperated. "Collins, go bring him back."

Hugh nodded and ran after Mycroft.

"He's probably gone to make sure that his maid isn't dead," Phryne said callously.

"I gave her the right dose," Anthea groused. "She's perfectly fine." She shrugged her shoulders. "Or will be when she wakes up."

Anthea glared daggers up at Phryne. "Some friend you are." She crossed her legs and arms and tossed her hair back.

"Remind me to tell you about Lydia Andrews some day," Phryne glared back.

Jack smiled and ducked his head to try and hide it. But Greg caught it.

"Who's Lydia Andrews?" Greg asked.

Jack coughed, blushing at having been caught out. "Our first case," he said waving his hand at Phryne. "Lydia Andrews was a friend of Phryne's who turned out not to only have murdered her husband, but was a cocaine kingpin, and attempted to kill Phryne and the Russian dancer she had tried to save."

Anthea blinked. "Oh. That would explain a lot of things."

They all turned to look at her. "I didn't kill her. In case I need to make that clear."

Jack huffed out an amused chuckle. "You do understand that the sheer fact you are in your maid's uniform makes us doubt that very much."

Anthea sighed and then said slowly, like she was explaining something to a small child, "I was suspicious of her. I was trying to follow her. Now that she's dead, I won't be able to find out what she was up to."

She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration, "Mary kept giving me the slip. I still don't know what she was trying to do, but she said that she was going to bleed Mycroft dry, so I'd guess blackmail."

"No, no wait," Greg said holding up his hand. "You were following the deceased?"

"Yes," Anthea replied, rolling her eyes.

"Did you take your suspicions to the police?" Jack asked.

"Or Mycroft?" Phryne amended.

Anthea scoffed. "Police are often dismissive of women, children, and the different, whether that difference is of mind or skin color or belief."

Jack and Greg shared an uncomfortable glance. Jack coughed and looked at his feet. When he looked up, Phryne had her hands on her hips and was smiling at him in amusement.

"I hope I've gotten better at that," Jack inquired.

Phryne's expression softened. "Yes, you have."

Greg coughed. "Did you tell your husband?"

Anthea's shoulders sagged. "No. He's got so much going on right now. There has been a rash of dead animals appearing on the estate, Sherlock is getting more difficult, and the balance ledger is often more red than black when it comes to the upkeep of this house. He's already had to send away a couple of under-gardeners, a handful of chamber maids, and one groom. It's sapping every strength he has. And then there was the miscarriage. I was afraid one more thing might break him."

"Speaking of which," Phryne said, "I thought you were supposed to be on bed rest."

"I heal very quickly," was Anthea's curt response.

"You could have come to me," Phryne complained.

"You were here on holiday, I didn't want to disturb you," Anthea explained.

"I'm a Lady Detective, Anthea," Phryne huffed, "Murder, intrigue, and danger _is_ what I do for fun."

Jack laughed, which cause Anthea to chuckle.

"Do you know if she was blackmailing anyone other than your husband?" Greg asked, trying to get them back on the proper topic.

"No, but it wouldn't surprise me," Anthea sneered.

"Do you know what it is he was being blackmailed for?" Greg pressed.

"I know him more intimately than anyone on this earth, he is above reproach," Anthea said, staunchly defending him.

"Well, Mary and he felt differently," Phryne said with a snort.

"Clearly," Anthea said, glowering.

"He mentioned his war record might cause some trouble," Jack prompted.

"That's even more impeccable," Anthea replied.

"And how would you know that?" Phryne snapped.

"Because I wrote it."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:Hello, everyone! I bet you are all surprised to see me so soon! Well, I started a little experiment in which I write 30 minutes a day and what I've learned is that I can crank out a chapter that way. Now, like before I can't guarantee that I'll be able to keep it up. But if I do it, I can see this story wrapping up by the end of August.**

 **So I followed a cliffhanger with... ANOTHER cliffhanger. I'd say I'm sorry, but I've been planning this particular cliffhanger since the beginning.**

 **In this chapter in the scene that haunted me for days until I started writing this story. It's nice to finally let people see it.**

 **For people that asked when Sherlock and John would be coming back...tada! They're back!**

 **And lots and lots of brotherly snark. I love me some Holmes humor.**

* * *

Anthea's response caused quite the stir, which was of course the effect she had intended. But when pressed all she would say is, "Classified," with a satisfied smirk on her face.

When they came to the conclusion that she wasn't going to give them anything else, they excused her. Mycroft was brought back, and with the news that the maid Hannah was, indeed, sleeping soundly in her mistress's bed.

Now that Mycroft had composed himself and his alibi been vetted, he was allowed to continue to sit in on the interviews, which passed along smoothly with only a few indignant responses of professed innocence.

Only Sherlock's interview caused quite the same stir that Anthea's did.

He came into the room nervously, glancing about at the occupants of the room with some trepidation. Once his eyes lit on Mycroft, he visibly relaxed. He posture became almost lazy, nonchalant.

"I am to understand that you were acquainted with the deceased," Greg began.

"And what gave you that idea?" Sherlock mocked. "Was it the fact that she was found dead in my home or that she had been invited to a party here, or was it the fact that she was engaged to marry my best friend?"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed.

The younger Holmes brother merely rolled his eyes. "If you're wondering whether I'm sad she's dead, I'm not. I'm glad."

"Sherlock!" Phryne admonished, hands on her hips. "You can't mean that."

"I hated Mary." Sherlock glared at Phryne. "She would have taken away the one person outside my family who cared about me and worse, I was expected to be happy about it."

"But you allowed her to come over," Jack interjected. "We all played tennis together. If you disliked her that much, than why did you permit her to do that?"

"Because if I stopped inviting her, then John would have quit coming over as well. And that would have been too much to bear."

"There has been made mention," Greg said, "that you have violent tendencies and are prone to outbursts."

"Really, Detective Inspector," Mycroft began, "you can't believe the word of few jealous imbeciles, can you?"

"Did you or did you not destroy a tennis racquet with your bare hands?" Greg pressed, ignoring Mycroft.

"I did," Sherlock replied, flippantly. "I do so hate endless prattle, and she was particularly bad that day."

"She?" Jack asked.

"Mary. She was tossing her hair, touching everyone like she owned them, and blathering on about some inane thing or another. I didn't intend to break the racquet. Didn't know that was possible, even."

They all stared at him in shock.

"I'm thinking that metal would better for making racquets out of, honestly. Something light, like aluminum or something similar."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft pleaded. "This really isn't the time."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Right," Greg said into the resulting silence. "We need you to go over your movements tonight."

"How far back do you want me to go?"

Greg sighed. "To the start of the party will be fine."

"I had gotten dressed as per Mycroft's orders, but since he hadn't said that I had to go to the party, just be dressed and ready to go at eight, I hid in the library."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Mycroft growled. "You knew what I meant!"

"Let us stay on topic, please!" Jack interrupted. "You weren't there all evening, what caused you to leave the library?"

"Bishop came looking for me," Sherlock continued and everyone else nodded, Bishop having said as much in his interview. "He couldn't find the 'master' of the house and asked me to help look for him. Which I didn't bother doing."

"Why not?" Phryne asked.

"Because if his own valet and butler couldn't find my brother, then he didn't want to be found, and I wouldn't have any better luck than he had. Bishop said that Mycroft needed to be located because the liquor at the party was running dry and only he had the key to the liquor cabinet and wine cellar."

"Are you a teetotaler, Mr Holmes?" Greg asked.

Phryne scoffed and Mycroft cleared his throat.

"No, Detective Inspector," Mycroft replied. "The last time my brother had access to either one, he used one of my finest whiskeys to create a bomb."

Sherlock huffed. "That wasn't what I was trying to do with it."

"I have no doubt," Mycroft agreed. "However, the groomsmen had a devil of a time getting the horses to calm down after the resulting explosion."

"Given that little tidbit, Sherlock," Phryne said, "I don't think I'll be telling your brother to allow you more 'adult' responsibilities when you can't handle your whiskey!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Perhaps not," he admitted.

"Why did you go to Miss Fisher?" Greg asked.

Sherlock grinned broadly. "I figured of all the guests, she would be the one who could either find Mycroft or at the very least break into the liquor cabinet."

The other men turned to her and she just tilted her head with a thoughtful smile. "True."

Jack and Hugh chuckled.

"What did you do after you spoke to Miss Fisher?" Greg asked.

"She told me to distract the guests while she hunted my brother down," Sherlock replied. "So I got my violin, and with the help of one of the stable hands, I performed a piece I had written. Afterwards, I went for a walk in the gardens."

"Alone?" Jack asked.

"Yes."

"So what you're saying," Hugh piped up from the corner, "is that you don't have an alibi for the time of death?"

"No."

* * *

Greg led Dr Elizabeth McMillan through the police station to his medical examiner's morgue.

"You'll just go on through here to the morgue," he explained, for lack of anything better to say.

"It must be nice having your morgue attached to your station," Mac replied.

"You have no idea," Greg readily agreed, " I don't know how the coppers stand it that don't."

He held the door open for her and she walked in to see a mousy brunette standing over Mary's body on the table. She was in a lab coat and carried a clipboard.

"Dr Hooper?" Greg asked, startling the woman.

Molly blushed. "Oh, hello, Detective Inspector. Who's your friend?"

"This is Dr Elizabeth McMillan, she wanted to take a look at the body if you don't mind," Greg explained.

Molly smiled, "Not at all, I was just finishing up."

She moved for the door but Mac stopped her, "You can stay if you like."

Molly jumped, startled. "Oh! You're Australian."

"Only if that means you'll stick around," Mac said slyly.

Molly blushed again. "If you want me to."

Mac looked her up and down and then with a cock of one her brows said, "Oh very yes."

* * *

Jack walked out on the veranda, where Mycroft and Phryne were sharing light refreshments and some light wine. He had his coat on and hat in hand.

"I'm going into town to get the results on the autopsy."

Phryne set down her glass and straightened up. "I'll go with you, I'm as curious as you are as to what happened."

"No, stay," Jack said waving her off, "You came to spend time with Mycroft, I'll be sure to tell you everything I find."

Phryne eyed him warily. "And just what _aren't_ you telling me, Jack Robinson?"

Jack smiled and fiddled with his hat. "You are far too clever for your own good, but yes, there _is_ another reason I'd like you to stick around here for awhile."

"I knew it," Phryne said, settling back into her chair and picked up her drink. "And what do you want me to do then?"

"Yesterday we were talking about our cases together and it got me thinking about how well you managed to deal with Jane," Jack admitted.

"Sherlock most certainly _isn't_ a winsome girl thief," Phryne said coolly, correctly deducing who Jack wanted her to speak to.

Mycroft chuckled.

"No," Jack agreed. "But he seems to like you, trusts you even. He might open up to you about where he was after his violin performance. He is obviously lying about where he was."

"You can't possibly think he's the murderer," she protested.

"He doesn't have an alibi, he clearly hated the victim, and he has a history of violent outbursts. But he didn't mean to, maybe it was an accident and they fought and she fell."

"I don't believe it," Phryne disagreed.

"Right now he's the best suspect we have," Jack replied. "I'm sorry, Phryne." He put on his hat and nodded. He turned on his heel and walked off toward the drive, where Greg was waiting in a police car to take Jack to the station.

Phryne looked over at Mycroft. She set her drink down hard and threw her hands in the air, "Et tu, Mycroft?"

Mycroft was staring into his cup sorrowfully. "I don't know what to think, Phryne." He drank the rest of the warm liquid and set down his glass. "I honestly don't know. Detective Inspector Robinson has a point, my own brother is looking like the murderer and it pains me."

"You know him, Mycroft," Phryne insisted. "You can't possibly think him capable of that." She cocked her head, "His predilection for explosions aside."

"That's just it, Phryne," Mycroft protested. "It's not _just_ the explosions and the experiments, it's the type of experiments. Our father once found him dissecting a dead rabbit."

"The natural curiosity of a child," she defended.

"There's his fascination with death," he continued. "Like these small animals that having been dying on the estate recently."

"Mere concern for animals on the estate," Phryne countered.

"His obsession with John," Mycroft retorted.

"Ah, well, you've got me on that one," Phryne admitted. "He does seem unusually attached to Dr Watson. But that could just be that he is protective of the one person that he feels actually likes him for who he is."

Mycroft sighed and buried his head in his hands, "I hope so, Phryne. Dear God, do I hope so." He straightened up and sighed again. "There has been a murder in my own home and it is someone I know, if not love with all my heart. Because I do, Phryne, I love my brother with all my heart."

Phryne stood up and hugged Mycroft around the shoulders. "I think you'll find that your brother is no more sinister than you or I."

Mycroft laughed. "Phryne, you and I are two of the most wicked people I know."

She laughed, too. "All right, fair enough. I think you'll find that Sherlock is far _less_ sinister than you or I."

* * *

Anthea watched from the shadows of the darkened sitting room that led to the veranda. She clenched her fists tightly, digging her nails into her palms. Her lip twitched and settled into a sneer. Her brown eyes turned cold and narrowed on the scene in front of her.

She knew what she had to do. Determined and firm that her cause was just, she turned and walked away.

* * *

"This is hopeless!" Greg shouted at Jack and Hugh.

They had just finished going over the interviews and crosschecking all the alibis. There would be a moment of eureka before one of the others would step in with another witness saying that they had seen the person in question.

But by the end there were only three that stood out without strong alibis, Anthea, John, and Sherlock.

"My bet's on Dr Watson," Hugh said. "It's like you say, sir," he explained, indicating to Jack with his hand, "when it comes to murder, it's usually someone they know and more times than not, it's the spouse or boyfriend. Or in this case, fiancé."

"That's true, Collins," Jack admitted. "However, there is no motive for Dr Watson to have murdered her. In fact, there is every indication that he will suffer greatly now that she has died. But in Sherlock's case, he has the means, the motive, and the inclination."

"But this is all conjecture!" Greg bellowed. "We have no proof. For any of it. What we really need is for someone to come forward and confess to the murder, so we can all go back to our lives."

Just then the door burst open and John stumbled through.

"It was me," he muttered. "I did it. I killed Mary."

* * *

 **A/N: I said Sherlock and John were back, I didn't say I was being nice to them. Have no fear, Phryne is on the case and will get it all sorted out. I promise. ;)**

 **The scene that had haunted me was the exchange between Phryne and Mycroft.**

 **There is another scene coming up that was nearly as persistent as this one, that I think you guys will enjoy, too.**

 **Oh! And for the record, Mac in Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries is canonically gay. I just wanted to see Molly get all flustered over being flirted with. :D**

 **Until next time, darlings!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello, hello! How is everyone on this fine Sunday evening? This story is starting to really pick up and all the loose threads are being tied up in a neat little bow.**

 **And off course the writing experiment is coming along swimmingly, as you already have another chapter. Still no idea how long I can keep this up, but here's hoping to at least the end of the story.**

 **And no cliffhanger on this one, I promise.**

* * *

Greg and Jack walked past Hugh, who was standing at the reception desk like he did every day at the City South police station. Jack smiled and Hugh nodded.

"Let us know when those results come in, Collins," Greg called out over his shoulder and opened the door to the interrogation room.

John sat at the table with his head bowed, hands clasped and handcuffed in front of him.

"I need you to go over every detail with me," Greg said, sitting down in front of him.

John let out a shuddering sigh and slowly raised his head, "I didn't set out to kill her, but I did nothing to stop it when I had the chance. I had, in fact, tried to kill myself."

"Come again?" Jack asked, raising an eyebrow.

"In my coat pocket you'll find a small vial," John replied. Jack stepped forward and rummaged through John's pockets until he found the bottle. He poked his head out to the reception area.

"Hugh!" he called.

The constable looked up in time to see Jack lobbing a bottle at him. He caught it deftly with a small look of surprise on his face.

"Have Mac test that," Jack explained. "See if it matches what they found in Mary's blood."

"Right away, sir!" Hugh exclaimed and dashed off for the morgue.

Jack turned around, closed the door behind him and said to John, "Continue."

"I had it in my pocket last night at the party," John started. "I had intended to drink the poison myself at the toast announcing Mary's and my engagement."

Greg frowned. "That's a bit drastic, don't you think?"

John shrugged. "If the poison didn't kill me, at the very least it would make me a vegetable and therefore useless to her."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked, concerned.

"She was only marrying me to get at my medical practice and the records kept there. That bitch was blackmailing my patients," John growled, clenching his teeth and his fists.

"Why not call off the engagement, or why did you even propose at all if you knew this?" Greg pressed.

John scoffed. "And have her blackmail me, or worse, Sherlock? No thanks, besides I didn't know until the day of the party. I had come back early from lunch because I forgot my wallet, to overhear her extort Mrs Hudson."

"Why would she blackmail Sherlock?" Jack asked.

"I don't know!" John said panicked. "I only meant that she would try to find something on him."

Greg and Jack shared a look.

John gulped. "Anyway," he said with a small cough. "I knew that if she didn't get what she wanted she would hurt me or Sherlock, so I was going to take the coward's way out. I poisoned my glass and held onto it so that I wouldn't lose my nerve."

Jack half sat on the table, one leg up, the other flat on the floor for balance, hands clasped on his bent knee. "Then how did she get the drink?"

"After hearing Sherlock play, I knew I couldn't leave him behind. It would hurt more than anything else I could've done," John sighed and bowed his head once more. "I set the glass down and walked out to the gardens where I had seen Sherlock go after his performance, but before I could get to the doors I realized that I shouldn't have left a poisoned glass lying around."

"You think!" Greg bellowed.

John nodded, mournfully. "It was stupid, I know that. I wasn't thinking at the party. I turned around to see Mary grab the glass and drink it down. I tried to catch her, to warn her, but I lost her in the crowd. Knowing it was a lost cause, I left her to her fate. She would have started to experience dizziness and vomiting within minutes and then death." He shrugged. "I figure that the dizziness got her first and she fell from the top of the stairs, only hastening her inevitable end."

The room grew quiet and as the silence stretched on, John cleared his throat, "So you see officers, I killed Mary."

Just then there was a knock on the door and Jack went to answer it. On the other side, Hugh was back.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "That was quick."

"Dr McMillan said that there was no need to test the vial," Hugh stage whispered. "There wasn't enough poison in the victim's system to have killed her. At best, she would have had flu-like symptoms for a couple of hours and then would have been fine."

John stood up, "No. No, that's not possible. I've seen what that poison can do; it would have killed her. I know it would have."

Greg cocked his head to the side, "Collins, do you still have the vial?"

Hugh nodded and Jack moved aside to let him into the interrogation room. Hugh pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Greg.

Greg looked at the vial and smiled softly. "Have you looked at the bottle since the party?"

John shook his head.

Greg held it out for him to take. John cupped his hands and Greg gently dropped the vial into them.

John turned the bottle over through his fingers and let out a small sob. The seal on the vial was barely broken. It wouldn't have poured out much of its contents. In John's haste to poison himself, he hadn't opened it enough to have done him or Mary much harm.

"No," he cried again. "It has to be me."

Greg looked at Jack and then back to John, concerned. "Dr Watson?"

"It has to be me," John repeated. "You can't keep investigating. You'll turn up things that deserve to stay buried."

"What things?" Jack asked. He looked to Hugh and Greg but neither one had any idea what John could be referring to.

"You'll only hurt him," John murmured, clutching the bottle tightly.

"Hurt who?" Greg pressed.

John pounded on the table and growled, "You'll only do more harm. I can't let you hurt him like that." Tears streamed down his face as looked up at the police officers, pleading, "Please...please take me."

* * *

Phryne, who was not one to take orders, especially when it wasn't something she wanted to do, had dragged Mycroft into town with her on her car. As she was nearing the police station she spotted Dot walk out of one of the shops with a woman and her teen-aged son.

Phryne honked the horn and waved. A delighted Dot waved back and beckoned her and Mycroft to come over. Phryne stopped the car and leapt out of it, graceful as a swan. Mycroft, on the other hand, exited the vehicle with all the dignity of a secretary bird.

As Phryne got closer she could better see the pair Dot was conversing with. The mother had long dark locks, hazel eyes, and warm, dusky skin. She starkly contrasted with her son, a gangly boy with dark curls, pale skin, and bright blue eyes.

"This is my friend," Dot said to the pair, "Miss Phryne Fisher, lady detective. These are Mrs Janine Hawkins and her son, Archie."

Phryne smiled and made sure to shake hands with them both. "Pleasure to meet you."

Mycroft just smiled, as they had met before.

After a few moments of conversing Phryne exclaimed, "He looks so much like Sherlock, don't you think, Mycroft?"

Mycroft scoffed. "Only as he is now, you should have seen him as a teenager, he was short and freckled until he was sixteen and then he shot up like bean sprout."

Phryne knew that she should leave it alone, but it just went against her grain to leave something unturned. "You must have been quite young when Archie was born."

Janine nodded and admitted. "Oh yes, about seventeen. Sadly, Archie's father passed away in the War."

Phryne smiled and the Hawkinses parted company from Phryne and her friends. As they walked back to the car, Miss Fisher commented, "You know, Sherlock would have been about the right age to have fathered Archie. She could be using the 'husband died' excuse to ward off her nosy neighbors. I would, if I were in her position."

"Oh for God's sake!" Mycroft protested.

Dot blushed. "Sherlock is very unlikely to have–" she made a vague noise, "with Mrs Hawkins."

"Sex, Dot," Phryne admonished her friend, "You can say it. Had sex. For crying out loud, you're a married woman." She put her hands on her hips. "I don't see why not, Mrs Hawkins is a pretty enough woman now, she would have turned many an eye in the town, so why not Sherlock's?"

"He's homosexual!" Dot and Mycroft said together.

Both Phryne and Mycroft turned to Dot.

She blushed, but began to tell them what she had seen in the garden in the days leading up to the party.

"Oh dear," Mycroft said, mournfully, "I'm afraid that gives him even more of a motive to kill Miss Morstan."

They stopped in front of the police station and Phryne's eyes lit up and she gasped. "Unless–"

"What is it, Miss?" Dot asked.

"I haven't figured out who did it, yet. But I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt it wasn't Sherlock _or_ John!"

She ran into the police station, calling over her shoulder, "I need to see Detective Inspector Lestrade!"

* * *

Phryne stopped short when she saw Hugh removing the handcuffs from John and knew what he had tried to do.

"Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade," she said, strolling up to Greg as he and Jack came out of Greg's office.

Both officers stopped and said, "Uh oh."

"Oh, come now," Phryne said, smiling, "all I want to do is have a nice talk with John here somewhere private."

Greg shrugged, "I don't see what harm it could do and you might get more out of him than we were able to."

Jack couldn't argue, he had seen it far too often in their time together.

"You could use the cells," Greg explained. "We mainly use them for a drunk tank when the boys get a bit too rowdy and there is no one there now."

"Good," Phryne grinned. "Follow me, John!"

John dutifully followed her to the place he had hoped would be his new home, the cells. John sat down on the bed and looked up at her expectantly.

"You do have an alibi for Mary's murder, don't you?" Phryne asked.

John scoffed. "Even if I did, it's not one I can tell anyone."

"Yes, because shagging the owner of Undershaw's younger brother would land both of you right here."

John's jaw dropped. "No! Of course not!"

"Oh God's sake!" Phryne said, exasperated. "Mac is homosexual."

John frowned, but Phryne waited until the comment really sank in.

"Oh!"

"Exactly, I wouldn't turn you in, any more than I would her or anyone else with those proclivities."

John sagged against the stone of the wall in relief. "I never thought about how heavy that kind of secret is until someone knows and the weight is gone."

Phryne walked further into the room, "Now, the sensible thing for you to do is hire me, and anything you tell me would be considered privileged."

"And Sherlock?"

"Oh, I don't mind taking on more than one client," she said, folding her arms and cocking her head.

John let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you!"

"Oh, believe me, the pleasure is all mine."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello! Sorry, about the wait, it took me a bit longer to get this chapter right. However because I've been doing the 30 minute writing challenge daily that means that I've got most of the next chapter written so I can post the next chapter fairly quickly.**

 **Which you'll find is a good thing, because this ends with yet another cliffhanger.**

 **But thanks to my husband, who tried to help me with the scene I had trouble with (he didn't manage it, but he did his best) and Old Ping Hai, who succeeded in getting the last scene to its current state.**

 **Love you both!**

* * *

"We're going to have to start looking at people outside of the party and the household. Expand our search to include migrants and transients. Find out where people in the town were that might have not been at the party, find anyone else that might have a motive to kill the victim," Greg admitted, tossing the file on the murder on the desk between them.

Jack put his hand's in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "There's always the possibility that she had caught someone trying to rob the estate and had gone up to stop them. They fight on the top of the stairs where she falls to her death."

Greg rubbed the bottom of his lip and then tossed his hand out, "I honestly don't know. I wasn't joking earlier when I said we would need a confession to break this case. Our prime suspects both have alibis with each other. Which they can't admit to because it could get them jailed, almost certainly castrated, and at the very worst, put to death. This is a copper's worst nightmare."

Jack nodded, "Any word from the family?"

Greg put both hands on his hips, "No. I haven't been able to get through their army of solicitors. And they apparently have one for everything. I ask a question about any enemies she might have had or her father might have had and one of them answers. I ask about their finances and a different one replies. And of course they threaten me with slander every time I bring up her blackmailing scheme."

"That's odd," Jack said, "Don't they want the murder of their daughter solved?"

Greg scoffed. "More concerned with appearances than their own blood. That, and it's highly likely that her father got his money illegally."

Jack moved to sit on the edge of the desk, "Well, that would go with what we know about the daughter, 'like will to like', after all."

"The only thing I did manage to get out of them was a list of Mary's close associates," Greg said, pulling out his notebook and flipping to the most recent page.

"I can't image that would be very long," Jack commented, "I never saw her with anyone else while we've been here."

Greg cocked his head to the side, "It's longer than you'd think." He handed the notebook to Jack to have him look it over.

Jack scanned the list of fifteen or so names. "John's on the top of the list, no surprise there."

"No, and you should have heard them, they were broadly trying to suggest that he killed her, too."

Jack frowned, "Also no surprise." He tapped on a name, "David Lancaster. He is one whom I did see her with and often. They would both come play tennis with us."

"Us?" Greg asked.

Jack cleared his throat, "Phryne and I would join them."

Greg chuckled, "Collins mentioned. It's just funny to think of you in tennis whites."

"I have all sorts of depth, Detective Inspector," Jack replied.

"Let's get back to David Lancaster, what about it him?" Greg asked, folding his arms.

"It was pretty widely known that Mary was seeing a couple of men before John proposed; one of them was David. Was he at the party? I don't recall seeing him there."

Greg pulled the file closer to himself and began to flip through it. He stopped on the list of guests. "Nope, and he wasn't invited either."

Jack really frowned and came around behind Greg to look at the list. "That's strange, aren't the Lancasters a big family in these parts?"

"Very," Greg said. "But perhaps Mary or John asked that he be kept off the list. After all, I wouldn't want my fiancee's former flame at our engagement announcement either."

"Still, it's something that we should look into," Jack pressed.

Greg raised his hands, placating. "No, I agree."

Phryne knocked on the open door and then strolled into the room, John following close behind. He was a different person than the one who had tailed behind Phryne to the cell like a man on his way to the noose.

Greg and Jack were so surprised by the transformation that their jaws dropped.

Jack raised his eyebrows, "Now how did you manage that?"

John blushed.

"Now that would be telling," Phryne said with a grin.

"Phryne!" Mycroft bellowed from the front of the police station. "I want to go home! Now!"

"One moment!" Phryne cooed. She walked to the reception desk and took a blank sheet of paper. She searched for a pen a moment before Hugh offered her his. She wrote something on the paper and folded it in half, then handed the pen back to Hugh. She held out the letter to Jack, who had followed her out of the office.

"What's this then?" Jack asked, taking it from her.

"Sherlock's alibi and I leave it up to you what you do with it." She took a deep breath and let out a sigh. "I'm trusting you'll do the right thing, Jack Robinson. You always do."

She turned to the crowd assembled, "Let's go; you coming, Hugh?"

Hugh looked at Jack, who smiled, "Go on, you're on your honeymoon for Christ's sake!"

Hugh practically leapt over the reception desk to take Dot's hand. She smiled up at him and gave him a kiss. "You know, that's something I admire about you, Hugh. You are sweet." She kissed him again and the constable turned bright pink.

"Aww, Dottie," he replied.

Phryne turned to John, "Can we give you a lift somewhere? I've got room for one more."

John looked over at Mycroft, who nodded his approval. "I'd like to see Sherlock, so where you're going will be fine with me."

As they walked to the car he said, "The world is a little brighter today than it was yesterday."

"I'm glad," Dot said.

"Me, too, Dot," Phryne added.

* * *

Just as the door closed, Jack opened the note and cursed, "Oh for Christ's sake!"

Greg walked up to him, "What does it say?" He took the paper from Jack's limp fingers and read out loud, "Charlie Freeman? Who's Charlie Freeman?"

Jack bit his lip. Did he really want Greg to know? He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. "It's another one of Phryne's and my earliest cases. A murder at a jazz hall. He was the prime suspect, mainly because the victim, like this current case, was a blackmailer."

"And this man was being blackmailed?" Greg asked.

Jack nodded tightly. "The victim in that case had pictures of him in a compromising position."

Greg frowned for a moment, "Since Phryne was talking to John when she got Sherlock's alibi, I'm guessing the pictures were of Charlie and another man?"

Jack looked down at his feet and sighed, "Rather than throw those two boys in jail, and strongly influenced by Phryne, I handed over the evidence for her to dispose of as she saw fit."

"Because it was the right thing to do?"

Jack looked Greg squarely in the eye and said, "Yes."

Greg sighed and sat down in his chair, "That's quite a relief to hear, honestly."

Jack looked at him surprise, "Oh?"

"If I went around arresting homosexuals in this town, I'd have to start with myself, and considering I don't have a constable at the moment, it would make for a very awkward booking, don't you think?"

Jack smiled, "I suppose it would."

"You and Miss Fisher don't have anything to fear from me regarding the alibis of Sherlock and Dr Watson," Greg said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, with those two safely out of the running for our killer, it's time to get back to work, don't you think?"

"Indeed."

* * *

John wedged himself in the back seat with Hugh and Dot, Hugh with a possessive arm around his wife as she sat between them. John smiled at the constable and shook his head. He knew what it meant to want to send a warning to everyone and anyone who might even look at his love, that this person belonged to him.

And that person had always been Sherlock. He should have been possessive around Mary especially when it came to her other paramours. He knew she had been sleeping with other men long after the two of them should have been exclusive. But he had asked Mary to marry him to fill the hole in his heart left by wanting the one person he couldn't have. Sherlock. Beautiful Sherlock with his bright eyes, dark curls, and mischievous grin.

No, if he was to have fallen for any of the three ladies that had come to stay, it would have been Phryne. But her heart, like John's, had been taken far before they had even met. His lay with Sherlock and Phryne's with Jack.

They were approaching the house, having walked from the old carriage house that now held Mycroft's collection of cars and aeroplanes, when they heard a cry for help coming from the veranda.

They all broke into a run. John's cane lay forgotten on the driveway as his solider instincts kicked in. As they neared, they could make out that the voice belonged to Sherlock, and then John's limp completely melted away into nothing as his only thought was of saving Sherlock.

A woman's voice was heard screaming, "Quiet! You'll be quiet, you hear me? There is no one here to rescue you, so save your breath!"

John didn't even register what was going on when he charged in, rushing the person with the gun before she could whip the weapon around to the noise of them arriving. It was only after John bore her to the ground and began to wrestle for the gun that he realized that he was fighting Anthea, Mycroft's wife. Anthea's MI6 training warred against John's military expertise. Anthea was smaller and had long hair, while John had the injury to both his shoulder and his leg. Anthea used the butt of the gun as well as her nails, aiming for the eyes and soft parts of the body. John used his fists, pounding anything he could reach.

Mycroft and Dot ran to Sherlock to make sure he was all right. He practically leaped into Dot's arms and began to sob, like a child clinging to its mother. Mycroft put his arm around Sherlock and began murmuring assurances.

Hugh picked up a chair from next to the door and held it aloft. Once Anthea was on top of John and it seemed like she had finally got the upper hand, Hugh smashed the chair over her back. Anthea dropped and then rolled off John, still clutching the gun tightly in her fist.

She struggled to get back up and had propped herself on her elbows, when she heard a cold voice above her say, "Drop it." She looked up straight into the barrel of Phryne's pearl-handled revolver. Anthea paused for a single moment and then dropped the gun. She let her body go slack and her head hit the floor.

"Good choice," Phryne said.

John picked up the gun and pointed it at Anthea, "If you even so much as twitch his direction," he said, indicating Sherlock with his chin, "I _will_ shoot you and I _won't_ lose sleep over it."

Anthea looked over at John and then back to Phryne. "It doesn't matter anymore."

John looked at the gun in his hand and cursed. "This is my gun. This is my service pistol. You were going to shoot Sherlock with my gun?" The anguish in John's voice was palpable.

"Why?" Mycroft asked. "Why kill Sherlock? Why use John's gun? Why, Anthea? Hasn't there been enough tragedy?"

Anthea squeezed her eyes shut and a single tear slid from her eye to wet the hair on her temple.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: As promised, yet another chapter ready for your enjoyment. Again the chapter was getting too long and some of it had to be cut short. However, as I've mentioned before, that means that it gets bumped the next chapter and makes it a faster turn around.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"Collins!" Greg cried when he saw Hugh walking back through the doors of the police station, "Back so soon?"

"I'm afraid so, sir," Hugh said, as someone pushed Anthea forward, her hands bound in front of her, and he grabbed her by the arm to show her to Greg and Jack. "I'm booking Mrs Anthea Holmes for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes and the assault on Dr John Watson."

"What!" Greg and Jack shouted together.

Anthea rolled her eyes, "He assaulted me first."

Mycroft sighed heavily, "Anthea, please." Her jaw slammed shut and she looked down at her shoes contrite. "I'm afraid it's true, Detective Inspectors. The combined effort of Dr Watson, Constable Collins, and Phryne here managed to stop her before tragedy struck."

Phryne smirked and waved from behind Mycroft's shoulder.

"My God!" Jack exclaimed. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Mycroft assured him. "Mrs Collins and Dr Watson are with him. But Sherlock needs his rest, so I beg you to wait until tomorrow to take their statements."

Greg nodded and as much as the cop in him itched to get everything whilst it was still fresh in their minds, the compassionate human being in him knew it would do no good to force it out of them after such an ordeal. He placed a hand on Mycroft's elbow and gave it a squeeze. "Of course, Mycroft, and if there is anything I can do, please let me know."

Anthea jerked from Hugh's grasp and lunged at Greg. Hugh managed to catch hold of her again before she got close enough, however.

And as he hauled her to the interrogation room, she struggled and yelled over her shoulder, "Don't you touch him. Don't you dare!"

Mycroft closed his eyes, pained. "Would you grant me the chance to sit in on the interview?"

Jack and Greg shared a glance and they both nodded. "You can't be in there while we question her," Greg admitted, "but there is a room where you can see and hear everything being said. And she won't be able to see you. Is that all right?"

"That is more that I could even dare to expect," Mycroft said, squeezing Greg's hand where it clutched his arm.

Jack coughed and rocked back on his heels. Mycroft and Greg jumped apart, and they both looked a little sheepish.

"The same goes for you, Phryne," Jack said to Mycroft's shadow. "You'll stay on the other side of the glass."

Phryne pouted, but Jack refused to relent.

* * *

So she stood next to Mycroft and Hugh a couple of hours later in a darkened room, looking through a large pane of glass to the bright interrogation room beyond.

On the other side of the glass, Anthea sat in handcuffs, defiant and cold. Jack and Greg walked in together, Jack carrying a rather large file. Anthea's eyes narrowed on what was in Jack's hands.

"What's that then?" she asked, as Greg sat down in front of her and Jack tossed the file on the table between them.

"Between my contacts at the Home Office and Mr Holmes's connection to MI6, we were able to get a lot about you in a relatively short amount of time," Greg explained.

Anthea pointed at the file with her chin, "You don't have the clearance to read that."

"I think you'll find that there is more to me than some country cop, Mrs Holmes," Greg sneered.

Anthea's defiant mask slipped a bit as she realized that her previous attitude wouldn't fly here. She was balanced on the edge of a knife and she could feel it slide out from under her.

"You won't get anything from me," she said, tilting her chin up.

"We don't have to," Jack said, pulling out a small green book from his inner jacket pocket.

Anthea paled, "Where did you get that?"

"Phryne found it for us," Greg said, leaning his chin on his fist. "Very clever hiding it your makeup bag."

Anthea just shrugged.

"I _know_ you don't have the clearance for _that_ ," Anthea snarled. "Only my superiors are allowed to read that."

Greg took out a pen and his notebook and jotted down a single word on it.

"That's not possible," Anthea said after she read the note. "You can't be him."

"I'm a lot older than everyone here, sweetheart," Greg replied flippantly. "Just because I chose the life I currently lead doesn't mean that I always lived liked this. Not only do I have clearance to read your little black book, I know that after you were released from duty, you were supposed to have burned it."

Anthea gulped.

* * *

On the other side of the glass, Mycroft held his hand over his mouth as tears streamed down his face.

"What's a black book?" Phryne asked. "Other than the fact that it clearly doesn't refer to the color."

"Black as in black operations," Mycroft explained, removing his hand from his mouth. "It would have a record of her targets along with dates and full dossiers. It means my wife was an assassin." He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

"And you didn't know?" Hugh asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "I didn't suspect a thing."

"Don't!" Anthea yelled, snapping the focus of those watching back to the scene before them.

Sitting on the side of the table, Jack was flipping through the book.

"Don't worry, Mrs Holmes," Greg said, jovially. "I had him read in. Just for you, and just for this."

Anthea glowered.

Jack stopped thumbing through it and went right to the last page. "Besides," he said with a smile, "This last entry was on the 9th of October, 1924. A full five years after the War. And your war record says that you were discharged on the 22nd of April, 1920. Four years after you were supposed to have burned this."

Anthea knew that she was done for now. "No comment."

"So who was the Dame Agatha Wyndham?" Greg asked.

* * *

"Oh for God's sake!" Mycroft hissed.

"Who was she?" Phryne asked.

"My godmother and the one person who could have put a stop to my marriage to Anthea," Mycroft said. "She was sickly and wouldn't have lasted the year, but if that notebook is any indication, my _wife_ hurried her death along."

* * *

"You have been going through Mycroft's life and systematically removing obstacles in your way," Jack was saying.

"Do you have a point?" Anthea sneered.

"Goes to motive in the attempted homicide of Sherlock Holmes," Greg replied.

"Holmes, Holmes," Jack said, returning to flipping through the notebook. "Ah yes! 14th of August, 1916."

"Don't say it," Anthea growled. "I know he's listening on the other side of the glass. Don't you dare say it."

"Who?" Jack replied innocently.

"You know who. My husband."

"He might not be there any more. Perhaps the murder of his godmother was enough for him," Jack said with a shrug.

"You are intent on ruining me," Anthea rasped.

"You did that yourself," Greg said. "This is us making sure that you go away for a _very_ long time."

"I like this part, _"_ Jack said, reading from the book, " _Col. Holmes is proving as difficult to kill as Rasputin. He was supposed to die in that battle like everyone else, but he survived. They've assigned me to finish the job. The staff here already trusts me. It will be easy to do."_

"What rank was Mycroft Holmes during the War?" Jack asked Greg.

Greg smiled up at him, "Major. But you know his brother Sherrinford was a colonel."

Behind the glass Mycroft grew cold, calculating. His spine straightened. His chin lifted up. He turned to Hugh.

"I need to make a phone call or two," he said, his voice monotone. "May I be permitted to use the phone?"

Phryne grabbed his arm, "Wait. I know what you are going to do, and I'm all for it, but wait."

Mycroft looked down at her, and Phryne could see the scathing comment bubble to his lips. He looked up at the hunched figure of his wife and then nodded.

Greg pulled out a photo, "That's you isn't?" He laid it in front of her.

"Yes," Anthea replied after she got a good look at the photo.

"According to the newspaper this was taken from, it lists an Andrea Yates, who's that, then?"

Anthea pursed her lips and then sighed. "I am. That was the name my mother gave me. I had been stationed at the hospital that they took Sherrinford to before the war, before my recruitment. It was so easy to go back and slip a little poison into his saline bag. Most of the kills in that book are listed as medical accidents or natural deaths in their obituaries."

"Why not do the same with Sherlock?" Jack asked.

Her face twisted. "I tried so hard to understand him, he is so awkward about most things and in others far too knowing. It was his feelings for John that made me want to continue to pursue Mary long after the thrill of the chase had worn off. Well, that and I was pretty sure she was the one who pushed me and caused my miscarriage. Not that I'll ever know now." Anthea shook her head. "But Sherlock's mind is a blackened pit. He had to be put down, he was worrying Mycroft. Most of my husband's ills came from that boy." She cocked her head to the side. "It's funny, isn't it? We all think of Sherlock as a child, but he's not. He hasn't been since the War ended."

"You do realize that this makes you look guilty for the Miss Morstan case as well?" Jack informed her. "With the mention that you held her responsible for death of your unborn child, and that she was blackmailing your husband, a man that you had killed for in the past."

Anthea rolled her eyes, "How many times do I have to tell you, I _didn't_ kill her."

"You are to be charged with the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes and the assault of Dr John Watson," Greg informed her. He tapped the photo, "And perhaps more than that if we can get the rest of them to stick. Especially the Mary Marston murder."

"I plead guilty," Anthea replied.

"Pleas are for the judge, Mrs Holmes," Greg said, as Jack went out to get a sheet of paper. When Jack returned with it, he placed it in front of Anthea and took out his pen. "But what we can do is make that confession a little more formal, shall we?"

She picked up the pen and began to write.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the bed in his room, sipping on tea. His body was still trembling, and he hated how this weakness was being telegraphed to both of his guests. Dot had brought up the tea things, enough for him and John. He felt like he should be brave like John.

"Why did she try to kill me?" he asked into his cup of tea.

John, who was sitting on a nearby chair, moved over to the bed and put his arms around Sherlock. Dot came up and took the cup and saucer gently from Sherlock so that he could bury his head into John's chest.

John trailed one hand down Sherlock's arm and the other braced the back of Sherlock's neck. He placed his head on Sherlock's curls and kissed his crown. "I don't know, love. I was so terrified that I was going to lose you before I could tell you that I loved you, and I had to do everything in my power to stop that."

Sherlock looked up, "You were frightened, too?"

"Very much so," John murmured.

"My mum always said that bravery was being afraid and doing what you needed to do anyway," Dot said with a small smile.

"I like that," Sherlock replied.

"As to your first question," Dot said, straightening the tea tray, "I think she was obsessed with Mycroft."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asked, sitting up, but still in John's arms.

Dot walked over to her handbag and pulled out a small, plain, leather notebook. "I read her diary."

John was incredulous, but Sherlock was amused.

"I already called the police station to let Miss Fisher know," she said gripping the book in both hands.

Sherlock took the time to fully deduce Dot. He hadn't done it before because she didn't seem like there was anything below the surface, but now? Now he could tell that he had severely misjudged her.

"You remind me a lot of John," Sherlock said, abruptly.

Both John and Dot turned to him, surprised.

Dot frowned, "We not alike, he's a doctor and former soldier, I'm just me."

Sherlock chuckled. "You are far more than that. You are kind, brave, fiercely loyal, and shrewd in ways that surprise most people because they can't see past the humble package that they are wrapped up in."

Both John and Dot blushed. "I see it, and I'm sure Miss Fisher does as well."

Dot coughed. "Well, thank you. Why don't we go outside and get some fresh air? I think it would do all of us a world of good right now."

Both men nodded and gathered up their coats. Dot grabbed her coat and hat on the way out to the garden.

* * *

 **A/N: I couldn't resist making Greg into a high ranking member of the Home Office. But he wasn't one her direct superiors, he just had high enough clearance to be read in and to read Jack in. And as for Hugh, Phryne and Mycroft, what the Home Office doesn't know won't hurt them. ;)**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Another chapter. Now we're nearing the end. I told you, I'd explain the animals. ;)**

 **I don't know for sure how many more chapters there will be, but at least two more.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Dot walked next to John, who was linked arm and arm with Sherlock, his cane between him and her. After the adrenaline had worn off, John was limping a little bit more now. Sherlock did his best to keep John upright without looking like he was trying to help.

Dot would have thought it was comical if wasn't so sweet. So she kept a weather eye out for anyone who might tell on the two men. Of course, there was really no one around, Mycroft had given the servants the day off. But she was mindful nonetheless.

In her constant vigilance it was Dot who spotted the dead bird first. "Oh how horrid!" she exclaimed, pointing to the poor raven in their path. As they got closer they could see that the animal had been mutilated, and not by any beast either. "Who would do such a horrible thing?" She pulled out her handkerchief and covered her nose to protect it from the stench.

"Whoever it was," John growled, "has got to be the same person poisoning the estate's animals. Right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled down at him sadly, "Yes, I'm afraid it is." He unlinked himself from John's arm and squatted next to the remains. "And I'd say this is a warning, telling me to back off on investigating the dead creatures."

"But why?" Dot asked. "You're the only one who seemed to care that it was happening."

Sherlock grinned at her. "Because eventually I would have convinced Mycroft to look into it. And if my brother started thinking that the animal deaths were suspicious, he would have moved heaven and earth to find the cause. He takes his duties as master of Undershaw very seriously."

Sherlock picked up a nearby stick and began poking the bird. "But by choosing a raven as a warning, I'm afraid he's rather shown his hand." He stood up and dusted off his trousers.

"How's that?" John asked.

"Most of the town knows that I keep birds and shelter wounded animals, but only four people know I keep a nesting pair of ravens," Sherlock explained.

"Four?" Dot asked, confused.

"Yes," he replied. "Mycroft, who had been there when my mother gave them to me. John, of course, and there were two others there the day I showed John the ravens for the first time." Sherlock looked at John. "Do you remember who they were?"

John frowned. "I remember Mary was there. But she couldn't have done this. The blood looks fresh, killed today. Mary has been dead for longer than that."

"Very good, John," Sherlock praised.

"So who was the other?" Dot asked.

John frowned as he thought and thought. "Who was it...?" Then suddenly his eyes snapped open.

"Oh God!" he shouted.

Sherlock grinned. "Yes, he was there, too."

"Who?" Dot asked, beginning to feel impatient.

"David Lancaster," John breathed.

* * *

Mycroft walked into the interrogation room with a black leather legal folder clutched in his hand and closed the door tightly behind him.

Anthea looked up and small smile appeared, "Oh, it's you. I thought those bumbling idiots were back for another go."

"I think they did well enough," Mycroft said, sitting down on the other side of the table. "After all, Gregory managed to surprise you."

Anthea frowned at the familiar air that Mycroft used DI Lestrade's given name. "Why on earth would anyone give up a high ranking position at the Home Office for _this?_ " She gestured vaguely at their surroundings.

"I've heard of many who sought the quiet life after the War," Mycroft lifted his chin. "I did."

Anthea leaned back against her chair, "Which is something I have never understood."

"As heir, I had to come home to Undershaw after my father fell ill," Mycroft reminded her, "Which is something I wouldn't have had to do if you hadn't killed Sherrinford."

Anthea's face twisted into an ugly mask. "If it wasn't for Sherlock, Sherrinford would still be alive," she retorted.

Mycroft sneered, "In what world would having only one brother have spared him in any way?"

She leaned forward earnestly, "MI6 courted you, time after time. They came in person, they called, they sent letters and telegrams, begging, pleading, bowing and scraping and you turned them away. For what? For a disturbed little boy who should have been drowned at birth?"

"You will not speak of my brother in such terms," he snapped. He stood up and placed both hands on the table, leaning toward her menacingly. "You continue to call him such names, but for all his peculiarities he's never killed anyone and you have. This isn't even a case of the pot calling the kettle black, this is more like comparing apples to oranges."

She looked up into his eyes and said, "Yet."

Mycroft sat down, "Who knows what tomorrow may bring? It's true that he could turn to a life of crime. He'd be brilliant at it, but I think you'll find that my brother, Sherlock, errs on the side of the angels more often than the devils."

"No matter which side he is on now or in the future, MI6 knew that as long as Sherrinford lived and aided in the war effort, you wouldn't leave Sherlock's side. So we removed the elder brother and 'believed' the lie you told about the younger. My superiors knew your real ages, they aren't that stupid."

Mycroft scoffed. "I never said or implied that they didn't, but if it had gotten around town that Sherlock avoided the draft because of that deal, it would have ruined us all. Do you know how many fathers, brothers, sons lost their lives in this town alone? Twenty. Musgrove isn't big enough to take such losses lightly. They wouldn't wish Sherlock's death upon me, but they would feel bitter that he got spared and their loved ones did not."

Anthea sneered, "So that's what Mary had on you, those imbeciles implied that it was your war record that she had over you. I never would have thought it was this."

"You were above such social mores," Mycroft noted, "Much like Sherlock in a lot of ways." He smiled at her and she snarled in reply. "There is something else you should know: when word came to Undershaw that Sherrinford had been wounded in battle, I called up MI6 and agreed to come work for them. I was on my way to London when I received a telegram saying that Sherrinford had succumbed to his wounds. Three days _after_ I agreed to come work for them."

Anthea frowned. "But I only received word to go ahead that morning, that's not possible."

"Oh but it is," Mycroft said coldly. "They didn't have to kill him, that was them sending me a message that my life was not my own. But I got the last laugh. I always do, including this." He opened the folder and turned it to face her. "This is a writ of annulment. This states that you married me under a false name, therefore perpetrating fraud."

"Anthea Barclay _was_ my name," she insisted.

"Legally?" Mycroft asked. "Or merely a cover name supplied to you?"

Anthea's expression grew dark.

"As I suspected," Mycroft sneered and pulled out a pen. "Now, if you'll sign at the bottom, we can dispense with this charade forthwith."

"And then that's that?" Anthea growled. "Twelve years together and you're just going to throw it all away?"

"Well, isn't that what one does when they find that their golden treasure is merely gilded? Throw it way?"

He handed her the pen and she signed it. With her real name, Andrea Yates.

"Thank you, Miss Yates," Mycroft said, taking the pen and folder back from her.

"Go to hell," she spat.

Mycroft stood and dripping with scorn, said, "You'll get there first."

* * *

Phryne flopped on a chair in the sitting room, sighing dramatically, even though there was no one to see the act.

What she needed was to have Mr Butler appear with a glass of Scotch. But alas, he was in Melbourne and she was in Musgrove. How she wished she was back in Australia. Sunny, beautiful Australia. She needed Cec and Bert to help her in her schemes. She was feeling melancholy and even the weather matched her mood. It was dark and grey, heavy with rain.

She could feel the oppressive air.

Suddenly the door opened and Mac rolled her eyes. "If you miss Australia that badly, you can go home. No one is holding you hostage." She went to the sideboard and poured them each a glass of the finest brandy. Mac walked over and handed one of the glasses to her.

Phryne took the cup gratefully. "It's this case," she explained after taking a sip. "Lestrade and Jack think they've got this whole thing tied up in a pretty, Anthea-shaped bow, or Andrea or whatever her real name is."

Mac sat down in the chair opposite her friend. "And you don't think she did it? She had means, motive, and opportunity, where's the lie?"

Phryne crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward on the arm of the chair. "I don't know, but there is something we're missing, something else we aren't seeing..." She shook her head. "Anyway, what have you been up to? You can't have been examining the body for this long."

Mac smirked and took a drink of her brandy, "Depends on which one you're referring to."

"Really?" Phryne replied with an arched eyebrow. "And whose body could be more interesting than that of a murdered girl?"

"Doctor Molly Hooper," Mac remarked casually.

"I see," Phryne said. "Let me guess; small stature, brown hair, warm brown eyes?"

Mac's smirk vanished. "Are you saying I have a type?"

"Of course you do," Phryne said, settling back into her chair. "Most of us do."

"You have one too, and you know it," Mac snapped back.

"Dangerous," Phryne agreed.

"Yes, which is why I know that Jack Robinson is more your type than he realizes."

Phryne cocked her head to the side and smiled, as if to say 'But of course.'

"Now if only I could get Jack to listen regarding Anthea," Phryne said with a huff. She downed the rest of her glass and pouted.

The door slammed open and Sherlock burst in, "It was David!" He strode into the middle of the room, Dot and John hot on his heels. "Where's my brother?"

"In town," Phryne replied. "But what's David?" Her mind went to the murder.

"The animals of course!" he bellowed.

"Animals?" Mac asked confused.

"You know, the ones that have been being poisoned around the estate?" Dot supplied.

"Sherlock figured it out," John said proudly.

"It all fits," Sherlock explained. "The servants often kept weed killer by the tennis courts and it wouldn't look suspicious if he was seen feeding the animals, as it was something he and Mary did often when they were here. But they had stopped about a month ago, and in his anger at being spurned, he began to poison them."

"I find that very hard to believe," Phryne said.

"He was cowardly," Mac argued, "and all that are cowardly are cruel. He was no different." And then she went on to relate what she saw in the gardens after the tennis match. How he grabbed her arm and shook her.

Phryne stood up and nearly shouted, "I need to see the body!"

"What for, Miss?" Dot asked.

Phryne ignored her and turned to Mac, "When he grabbed her arm, was it hard?"

Mac rocked her head back, "Most certainly. What is going on in your funny, little head?"

Phryne locked eyes with Sherlock and he grinned in response. He had gotten the same idea.

"Bruises!" they said together.

* * *

 **A/N: This scene with Anthea and Mycroft was me thumbing my nose at TPtB. When your wife is a murdering assassin who tried to kill Sherlock; you divorce the bitch, not play house.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:Ta-da! We finally wrap up the mystery. It only took me eight chapters. Sorry about that. Honest. There were just so many things that wanted to be told and it got in the way of us find out who the murderer is. And I have one final ace up my sleeve that will be revealed in the next chapter. The last chapter.**

 **I really hate to see this story end, it's been a part of me for these last six months. But I have other ideas that have been patiently waiting in the wings for their turn.**

 **Next up should be the long awaited (by me anyway) sequel of Death and the Youth, entitled "Hypnos and the Detective" which is a Mystrade story. I have some of it done so it shouldn't take me too long. And then a "10 Things I Hate About You" fusion with the Holmes brothers as Kat and Bianca Stratford. Mystrade and johnlock. So that will be fun.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Phryne stormed past Greg with Sherlock fast on her heels.

"Miss Fisher!" he cried, as he tried to bar her way. "I have indulged you long enough, I cannot simply condone this intrusion into my morgue!"

Mac lifted an eyebrow and said, "I believe you'll find it's Dr Hooper's morgue, and I think she'll let us look at the body."

Greg looked to Jack, who merely shrugged his shoulders. "You're of no help," Greg spat.

"I warned when this whole business started," Jack explained, hands in his pockets, "that you could let her have her way or you could try and stop her. And that if you opted for the latter, that meant she would sneak in here, probably after dark, Mac and Sherlock in tow. Then she'd find some evidence which she would proceed to rub in your face for not having let her look in the first place."

Phryne shrugged her shoulders, "I wouldn't have waited until dark, I just would have sent Dot in as a distraction and slipped in the back."

Greg buried his head in his hands and resisted the urge to scream. He drew his hands across his face and sighed. "Fine, but only five minutes, and if Dr Hooper wants you out sooner, you leave, is that understood?"

"Yes," Phryne said with a triumphant smile. "Which is better for everyone as I have Dot and John on a mission for me."

"You're not withholding evidence, are you, Phryne?" Jack asked.

"Not at all, fact-finding only," she assured him.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, but she wasn't even fazed. She strolled past him and then indicated to Mac to lead the way. Mac smirked at Greg as she too sailed past. The three men followed the ladies out.

* * *

Mac knocked on the door to the morgue, "Molly?"

Molly started, "Oh, hello, Dr McMillan. Back so soon?"

"With your company as a lure, how could one resist?" Mac replied.

Molly blushed. "What can I do for you?"

"My friends here," she said, indicating Sherlock and Phryne, "would like to look at the body of Mary Morstan. It won't take more than a couple minutes, I promise."

Molly shuffled from side to side, "I'm not sure, I mean I just called the family, they'll be coming any minute and I–" Molly looked to Greg, feeling hopelessly lost.

"It's all right, Mols," Greg said, reassuringly. "Just give them five minutes. Then you can shoo them off."

Molly smiled, "Yes, yes, of course."

She went and pulled down the sheet from Mary's face.

"A little further, please," Phryne requested.

Molly looked around at the men, "But it's not decent."

"Not that far," Phryne snapped. "Just low enough to see where she was pushed."

Molly blushed again, this time from shame.

"Phryne!" Mac hissed.

"Oh for God's sake!" Phryne snarled back. Phryne took the sheet from Molly's hands and pulled it down to reveal the hand prints. "And there is evidence that Anthea _couldn't_ have killed her, Detective Inspector!"

Jack frowned. "Her hands are too small."

"Exactly!" Phryne turned to Sherlock. "Go on, you want to show off and I want to let you."

Sherlock lifted the sheet enough to pull out Mary's arm. There on the upper arm were bruises.

Molly leaned forward to look. "What's so important about those? They were made well before she died. They're yellow, you see."

"Yes, they are. But we can compare the size of the hand that grabbed her here, to the ones on her chest," Sherlock explained. And he measured the two sets of bruises.

"They're the same size, so what?" Greg asked.

"So, Detective Inspector," Sherlock sneered, "I suspect that the bruises were made by the same person."

"David Lancaster," Mac supplied.

"And how would you know that?" Jack asked.

Mac indicated with her chin the bruises on Mary's arm, "I saw him make those."

"David was rough with Mary?" Greg asked. "When?"

"A couple days before the murder," Mac replied. "I didn't think anything of it because he wasn't at the party."

"I think you'll find, Detective Inspector, that all you need to do is place David Lancaster at the scene and the rest will fall into place."

Hugh knocked on the door. "Miss Fisher?"

"Yes, Hugh?" she asked, turning to the door.

"Dotty called and told me to tell you that the servants did see someone lurking around that night."

"Why didn't they mention it when we questioned them?" Jack asked.

"Uh...well according to Dotty he was usually lurking around the house, and the night of the party wasn't out of the ordinary. They just assumed that he had come to surprise Mary."

"Who, Hugh? Who was it?" Phryne asked.

"David Lancaster, Miss."

* * *

David tapped his fingers on the interrogation room table, slouched in the chair indolently. "Really, hauling me in here like some errant school boy over a couple of dead squirrels? Surely you have better things to do with your time. Like, I don't know, solve a murder?"

"Oh we're working on that," Greg replied. "And if it was only a couple of dead squirrels no one would have noticed, would they?"

David shrugged. "Like I care."

"You should, animal cruelty in England is taken very seriously," Greg said.

"What? A fine? Tell me how much and I'll be on my way," David said, pulling out his wallet.

"So you don't deny poisoning the animals on the Undershaw estate?" Greg asked.

"Like I said, it's just a couple of animals. They're vermin anyway."

Greg's fingers itched to wrap around the arrogant bastard's neck. He schooled his features into blank indifference as to not give David the satisfaction of seeing him upset.

"And the raven?"

"Ah. I should have known that's what brought your attention to me," David huffed. "But it was worth it to see the look on that queer's face thinking it was one of his. He looked so stricken. So shocked." His countenance became that of utter depravity, his mask finally dropping at last. "So how much is the fine?"

Greg folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "£5000 and at least three years in prison."

"What?" David squawked, sitting up at last.

Jack walked in with a folder under one arm and sat down next to Greg. "I wonder if they'll let you do those three years before you hang?"

* * *

On the other side of the glass, Sherlock and Phryne were watching the scene unfold in front of them.

"I wanted to do this bit," Sherlock complained.

"Nah," Phryne disagreed. "It's better to leave this part to the professionals. If nothing else, to ensure that when it goes to trial it doesn't get thrown out on a technicality. Besides, the best bit is when you get to be clever and show how you got to your conclusion."

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "I suppose."

"In any case," she said, tossing her hair back, "it's fun to let them think they're good for something. You get to tag along to more cases that way."

Sherlock chuckled. "Fair point."

* * *

David whined about all sorts of things, "I didn't kill her. I wasn't anywhere _near_ Undershaw. I wasn't invited." He put his hands flat on the table, palms down, fingers spread. "I hadn't been by since we played doubles tennis with you and the girls. And if anyone says otherwise, they're lying."

Greg cocked his head to the side, "And who do you think is lying?"

David sniffed, "They all hate me, jealous of my good looks and charm. There's that queer, or the cripple, or even that tart they have up at the manor, now." He licked his lips. "I'd love to get my hands on that one. What that one needs is good belting. She's like a wild filly and I'd love to break her."

Jack dashed for the door and managed to lock in time before Phryne could burst through. Suddenly there was pounding on the other side and screaming that could be heard, "You open this door this instant, Jack Robinson!"

David sneered. "What? Are you going to to hit me for insulting your tuppenny whore? Teach me a lesson?"

Jack walked back to the table and there was a thump of Phryne kicking the door before the noise ceased altogether.

"No, just preventing myself, or DI Lestrade here, from having to arrest Miss Fisher for assault," he said casually.

David looked at the glass and gulped.

"I'd reckon you just had a very lucky escape," Greg said. He looked up at Jack, "So what set her off? The questioning of her morals?"

Jack laughed. "She might say that she was worth more than two pennies, but no, that wouldn't bother her. No, it was the implication that in order to be of any merit, all she needs is a 'good man' to make her settle down. And of course, threatening to beat her spirit out her."

Greg scoffed, "If the War couldn't beat out that woman's optimism, I highly doubt that anything could."

Jack looked up at the glass and smiled. "She has an indomitable spirit and I have seen her take on things that break lesser men." Jack turned to David. "Men like you."

David shrugged, "Do get on with it, who has seen me at Undershaw the night of the party?"

Jack and Greg looked at each other, "I don't believe either of us said that anyone had," Greg replied.

"No, but it was implied. Plus there is no evidence that I killed her, so there must be a witness."

"But we do have evidence," Jack said, pulling out some photos from the folder and tossing them in front of David.

David looked at images and with snarl of distaste pushed them away. Jack grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand down on the photo of the bruising on Mary's chest.

David growled and snatched his hand away. "That doesn't prove anything, there are a number of men with similar-sized hands that could have made those marks."

"That's true, but how many of them were seen quarreling with the deceased days before her murder," Greg asked and then threw the photo of the bruises on Mary's arm to him.

David pushed this photo away, too. "Yes, of course I was upset. Here I am with everything, good looks, charm, money, brains, and she picks that doddering old man over me?"

"Who is a war hero and has a steady medical practice," Jack supplied.

"Whatever," David growled. "What else have you got?"

"Well, as you said, you must have been seen," Greg said, "And you were, by a couple of servants."

"Oh is that all?" David laughed. "Who cares about a bunch of filthy servants? I thought you were talking about someone important."

"Mycroft cares for his servants," Greg defended.

"Miss Fisher as well," Jack added.

"Oh for fuck's sake," David huffed. "Provide actual evidence to the murder or I'm done here."

"The fascinating thing about bruises that appear after death is that they are clearer than regular bruises," Greg said, pulling out the final picture. "They show all sorts of detail that wouldn't otherwise show up."

The picture showed the fingerprints on the body. David looked at the picture and then at the folder holding the other pictures.

"I'm pretty sure we can match these prints," Greg smiled, "to the ones on that photo you pushed away."

David paled and then turned red, "Yes, fine. I killed the bitch. Pushed her down the stairs. She deserved it. I knew that she spread her legs for just about anyone, but it was galling when of everyone she could have had, she picked a crippled old man."

"How did you know she would go up to the second floor?" Jack asked.

"It was her favorite thing to do at parties," David explained. "Prying through people's belongings. Sometimes she would have me stand guard for servants and the owners. I knew this time wouldn't be any different. So I went upstairs and waited. I thought I was going to have to wait for hours. But no, up she came, headed straight for Sherlock's room. I stepped out from behind one of the suits of armor and confronted her. I gave that bitch one more chance, and she dared to call me pathetic."

"She called you pathetic, and you pushed her down a flight of stairs?" Greg asked.

"She made the prettiest picture, lying at the bottom the stairs as blood and life poured from her empty head," David replied. "I told her I'd make her pay. Now, who's the pathetic one?"


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hello! This is truly the end. It has been one hell of a ride. I started back in February and it is now nearly September. I learned a lot from writing this, mainly that Phryne Fisher is such a force of nature that she demands center stage. So if I do come back this universe, I'll keep the cast down to allow her more time in the spotlight. I've also learned mysteries aren't my forte and despite knowing this, I will keep trying to write a good one.**

 **I hope everyone enjoys the slightly longer chapter (to make up for the shorter prologue and because I couldn't deny people a johnlock kiss and a mystrade kiss.)**

* * *

Mycroft held a going-away party for Phryne and her friends. When the next boat left for Australia, they would all be on it. Phryne had even secured cargo space for her two-seater aeroplane. Mycroft had invited Mrs Hawkins and her son, Archie, as they had become friends with Dot. Mycroft had asked Greg along as well.

"To think," Phryne said, while they were discussing the case, "that if Mary had chosen David, they would still be doing ill in the world together, and probably worse."

"Ghastly business," Mycroft agreed.

Dot smiled at Sherlock and John, who were sitting very close together on the sofa. John caught her gaze and blushed.

"It's strange," she said. "In choosing Dr Watson over David Lancaster, their reign of terror came to an abrupt end."

"It is the one good thing she did," Sherlock replied, "recognizing that John is superior in every way."

John's blush deepened and whispered something in Sherlock's ear, that caused Sherlock to duck his head to hide the dusting of pink on his own cheeks.

John cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess now is as good a time as any to announce that Sherlock and I are moving to London at the end of the summer."

"Really?" Mac asked. "Where to?"

"221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson just inherited some prime real estate in central London and she's going to be needing some lodgers to help maintain the place while she's getting settled in. There's even a second flat that I plan on turning into a private practice for my medicine."

"Oh how wonderful!" Dot exclaimed. "And with your patients coming to you, you won't have to worry about tiring out your leg."

"That was my thought as well," Sherlock said proudly. "I will also be setting up shop. Consulting Detective, I'll consult with the police and private citizens on all sorts of matters."

Jack smirked, "Baker Street, eh? That _is_ a fine address for a detective." He winked at Phryne and she grinned back in response.

"That is exciting," Phryne agreed.

"Well, they are finally sending me a constable or two," Greg said, "so I won't have to shoulder the whole workload by myself. It'll give me more time to do the things I want."

"They won't be as good as me, I reckon," Hugh said with a laugh.

"No, but maybe if I train them up a bit, they'll be at least half way decent," Greg replied.

Mycroft coughed discreetly, "I, too, have an announcement to make."

Everyone turned to him.

"I am giving up Undershaw to live in the cottage down the way," he said, once he had everyone's attention. "This house has too many bad memories now, and I find them too oppressive."

"You aren't going to be selling this lovely, old place, are you?" Jack asked.

"No, no," Mycroft assured everyone. "It will still be in the hands of the Holmes family. Just not me."

"Well, I'm not staying," Sherlock protested.

Mycroft smiled at his brother fondly. "Of course not. I wouldn't deprive you and Dr Watson the opportunities London affords. No, it will go to Sherrinford's widow and son."

Suddenly it was so quiet that one could have heard a pin drop and the attention was most certainly _not_ on Mycroft Holmes, but Janine and Archie.

"Well, I'll be damned," Phryne said, breaking the labored silence. "He _is_ a Holmes after all."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "After you mentioned that Archie looked like Sherlock, I went looking for old photos of Sherlock at that age to show you, but what I found instead were old pictures of Sherrinford and Janine as well as their marriage license."

He turned to Janine, "Why didn't you say something, my dear?"

Janine raised her chin, "When my Ford died, your father was still alive and he disapproved of our relationship. And then you brought home a bride and I couldn't bear the thought of taking this place away from you, especially after you gave up so much to take care of Sherlock and your father."

"Mum?" Archie asked, his voice cracking with emotion. "You lied to me?"

"No, darling," Janine explained. "Everything I told you about your father was real. Ford Hawkins was the name he used during the war to avoid getting promoted just because he was a Holmes. I understand members of the royal family do something similar."

Mycroft nodded. "Perhaps in light of what happened with Anthea, it's best that this come out now instead of sooner."

Grim silence fell as they all realized the implication. Had Anthea known about a son of Sherrinford, there was a distinct possibility that she might have gone after Archie as well.

"So I'm going to be rich?" Archie asked.

And suddenly everyone was laughing.

* * *

Phryne sat in her parlor on Baker Street in Melbourne, having her morning tea when Mr Butler brought in the early post.

"Thank you, Mr B," she said, taking the letters off the tray. "Three letters from England! How delightful!"

But before she could open them, she heard someone thunder down the stairs. Both she and Mr Butler turned to the sound to see Jack Robinson dressed in a suit and grabbing his hat and coat.

"Where are you off to?" Phryne asked, getting to her feet. "I thought you had the day off," she added petulantly.

Jack came up to her and gave her a long kiss on the lips. "There's been another murder on the docks. That's the third this month."

"And duty calls?" she asked ruefully.

"I'm afraid so," Jack said, reaching out to grab her waist. "I'll make it up to you."

"Just give me the address, and we'll call it even."

He looked at her warily and then rolled his eyes, "Fine. Though it is positively indecent that you rank murder up there alongside a day with me."

"And you like it," she replied, gently tapping his nose with her finger.

"God help me, but I do," he agreed and kissed her more soundly. "I'll have Mr Butler give you the address. Don't keep me waiting too long."

"Never," she said with a smirk.

* * *

When she got home that night, she saw that Mr Butler had left three letters on her nightstand.

She looked closer at the names; one from John, Mycroft, _and_ Janine. As curious as she was about why the newly minted Mrs Holmes would be writing her, she was more interested in news from Sherlock and John, so she opened that letter first.

...

" _Dear Phryne,_

 _I thought marrying Mary was the only way to secure a living in my continuing illness, but it appears that I have deeply underestimated the sheer force of will Sherlock has in keeping me by his side. By the time that we had moved in, 221C had been completely transformed into my private practice._

 _I sit at a desk that would cost me at least two months' wages with a flourishing practice. It is everything I could have hoped for..."_

John set the pen down and looked at his office. His own office. He had a waiting room, an office, and a room to see his patients. He had twice the space he had in Musgrove and he knew whom to thank. The man who was currently watching him from the doorway, arms crossed and a smile on his face.

"I thought you were done for the night," Sherlock said as he came into the room, closing the door behind him.

John chuckled. "I didn't realize it was that late," he admitted. "I was writing to Phryne about our new lives." He stood up and came around the desk. He took Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed the detective soundly. "I still can't believe I get to do that."

"Well, technically, you can't," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "But there is no one here and no windows for anyone to peer in."

John kissed Sherlock again passionately, "Still incredible."

"Very much so."

"Come sit on my lap while I finish my letter," John suggested.

"Sounds wonderful," Sherlock agreed. He locked the door, then followed John around the desk to sit snugly on John's lap.

"... _We are being careful, of course. Neither of us want to go to prison. So I have a "room" upstairs. People think Sherlock is an eccentric who doesn't like people in general. Except me, naturally. And I am a grieving widower who is escaping the isolation of the countryside. We are merely two bachelors with no intent in the future to change that status._

 _Sherlock sends his love and has expressed interest in coming to see Australia. It won't be any time soon, not until I get my practice a little firmer on the ground so that it could take my being gone for so long. But still, keep the kettle on for us._

 _I have sent you pictures of both 221B and 221C, I think you'll like them._

 _Sincerely,_

 _John H Watson_

 _and_

 _Sherlock Holmes"_

Phryne pulled out the pictures and completely agreed with John's assessment. They were a lovely mix of modern and antique with a flare that was all Sherlock, if the skull on the mantel was any indication. It was almost enough to make her jealous of _their_ Baker Street lodgings.

Almost.

She put away their photos and opened Mycroft's letter next.

…

 _Dearest Phryne,_

 _The resulting media explosion in the wake of the inquest into Mary Morstan's murder and Sherlock's attempted murder has finally died down. I have never been a nine days wonder before, and I can say with absolute certainty that the War was kinder than that pack of hyenas calling themselves journalists..._

Mycroft looked out the window of his bedroom to the resulting peace that moving from Undershaw to the Diogenes cottage had brought to his frayed nerves. It was dark now, not yet dawn. He need only convince his mind that the peace was real. But out there were rose gardens and ivy-covered trellises, a bit wild and ready to be tamed. Gone were the overly manicured lawns and hedges. He truly loved it here.

He looked from the window to the bed. His side of the bed was rumpled with his tossing and turning, but on the other side was a sleeping Gregory Lestrade.

Now that he had time to himself, the Detective Inspector spent a lot of it with Mycroft. He had yet to formally move in, but most people had come to accept their odd friendship and Greg's concern for Mycroft after the trials. It was a given that any day now Greg would make the move permanent and give up his lodgings in town.

Mycroft awaited that day with giddy anticipation.

Greg's alarm sounded and after he turned it off, he looked at the empty side of the bed before twisting to see Mycroft watching him. A warm, sleepy smile came over Greg's face. He stood up and walked to Mycroft at the desk.

"Another nightmare, love?" Greg asked, kissing his lover good morning.

"Mhmm..." Mycroft sighed, leaning into Greg's solid frame. "I'm writing Phryne."

"Send her and that copper of hers my love," Greg said, caressing Mycroft's back. "Then come down and join me for breakfast."

"Sounds wonderful," Mycroft agreed. He watched Greg pull on his bathrobe and wander out into the hallway. He sighed happily and turned reluctantly back to his letter.

" _...Some days I feel badly about leaving Janine and Archie at Undershaw, but she has more than proved herself capable. She has even managed to rally a good portion of the upper crust to her side. Of course there will always be those who hate her because she dared to love my brother._

 _Gregory sends his love to you and yours. I occasionally miss the loudness of the group we had assembled leading up to the tragic events, but I believe I will get used to serenity._

 _Having him by my side makes everything worthwhile. So in some ways, I should be grateful to Miss Morstan for putting Gregory into my path._

 _I can honestly say that I love him. I used to think that I loved Anthea, but what I felt for her pales in comparison to what I feel for Gregory. I don't know what I felt for her, but it wasn't love. I believe I sought in her the ease of marrying a woman. But now I know what true contentment is._

 _Love,_

 _Mycroft Holmes_

 _PS This is Greg, and yes, Miss Fisher, I love him too."_

Phryne set down this letter and she could say that this made her happier than the news about Sherlock and John. She knew of their feelings for each other before leaving England, but this was a revelation and an unexpected one. She was glad that Mycroft found love after everything that had happened to the poor fellow.

She picked up the last letter and sated her curiosity at last.

" _Dear Miss Fisher,_

 _You'll pardon my intrusion but I don't know who else to turn to. Mycroft has informed me that you have a ward around Archie's age and I was hoping for some recommendations for schools or tutors for him. I understand that needs of girls and boys must be inherently different but I hope you can provide me with some leads at the very least._

 _I have pulled Archie from the local school until we can find a better place for him. He was a quiet child to begin with, but now he has become withdrawn. Those he thought were his friends turned on him and those that despised him are now suddenly friendly. I would like have him tutored for at least a year so that the story of our sudden elevation has time to die down._

 _Some instruction for myself wouldn't go amiss with the way one is supposed to eat or sleep or breathe like one of them. I understand that you went through a similar rise in station, (though at a much younger age) and if you could give me some tips in that regard, I would greatly appreciate it._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Janine Holmes_

Phryne read the letter several times and wanted to beat Mycroft over the head. He believed Janine to be doing fine, but this was a woman who desperately needed help. And by God, Phryne was going to make sure Janine had all the help she could require.

She would ring Mr Butler up in the morning and get lists going. She stopped and gasped. "Oh that's brilliant!"

Deciding that this idea couldn't wait for morning, Phryne called out, "Mr Butler!"

And he came running, gun in hand.

"No murderers today," she explained with an indication of her chin to his gun, "but I have a friend in England who desperately needs our help, and the first thing I would like to do is send a little emissary in the form of our Jane. She's already set to land in England for a day or so. We can telegram everything she'll need and get it there before her boat does."

Mr Butler smiled. This was what he loved most of all about his mistress, her great big heart.

"I'll get on it right away, Miss," he replied.

"It's going to be a long night," she warned him.

"We've had plenty of those, and I'm sure this won't be the last."

She grinned and followed him down the stairs, giddy as a schoolgirl.


End file.
